An Intervention
by Ellanorrr
Summary: Will has hit a dead end with the Chesapeake Ripper case, and is growing more and more concerned about his mental state. When two mysterious strangers called Sherlock and John appear, unannounced and uninvited, he immediately doesn't trust them. Could they be what he needs to help solve the case (and in fact, exactly what Hannibal doesn't need), or are they after something else?
1. Motives

**Author's Note: This is based on the characters in BBC's Sherlock and the TV show, Hannibal. Set after Season 1, Episode 6 of Hannibal, and before the Season 2 finale of Sherlock. Disclaimer: I own none of the characters used, or the Chesapeake Ripper story line.**

**The cover image (recently added) is part of an amazing piece of fan-art by Barrocco (I asked for permission to use it and you can find her on tumblr).**

**Will is still looking for the Chesapeake Ripper, but seems to have hit a dead end. Two mysterious British strangers, Sherlock and John show up, uninvited and unexpected. Will Sherlock and John provide a fresh perspective and lead Will to finding out who the ripper is, or are they after something else? And will Sherlock be a challenge for Hannibal...or just a bit of fun?**

**Chapter 1: Motives**

Will closed his eyes, blocking out the sounds of rustling leaves around his feet and over his head, and the quiet muffled noise of the forensics muttering in the background, until they dulled to a low, barely audible hum. Time reversed. The scene shifted, the sun sinking beneath the shedding trees, and darkness setting in. Damp lifted off the ground and into the air, forming raindrops and then thunderous grey clouds above the forest. The body, slumped at the foot of the tree started to show hints of life, the cheeks beginning to flush pink, the blood stain retreating, forming a smaller and smaller circle on her chest. Will felt himself moving outside of himself, back through the trees. The woman's hair fell back in front of her face, in wet coils, from where it had been neatly tucked behind the ears. The body moved from the tree, dragged across the ground – lightly, carefully, not recklessly – until it lay on the floor, across a pile of leaves. The blood which was now pooled around the body withdrew back towards the body, into the wounds. The woman stood up, a look of horror in her eyes –

"Two shots!" Will jumped at the loud exclamation, his eyes snapping open, abruptly. His arms were outstretched in front of him, pointing his fingers like a child pretending to be wielding a gun. He dropped his arms hastily back to his side. "The blood amassed on the floor, here; you can see it drying, beneath these leaves, diluted by the rain, mind you, but the body was moved several meters after the shots were fired. Two shots!"

The voice was immediately disturbing, dragging Will from his own mind immediately, clear, drawling, annoyingly and stereo-typically…British. The voice continued, from Will's right. Will faced the speaker, who stood tall and with dark curly hair, sharp features, gloved hands behind his back, wearing a long, black coat, with a wide collar. "Two shots were fired, not one. The first too low, and the second a little too high; of course she would have bled out from the first in a matter of time. But our culprit didn't want that…he didn't want her to suffer…or he didn't want to _hear _her suffer." The speaker slowed towards the end of his sentence, as though waiting for Will to respond, but while he spoke he did not turn to look at Will.

"What?" Will asked. He was still disorientated.

"Her coat was stained with blood, but not in the location where she was shot." The tall stranger finished. He'd maintained his disinterested expression throughout. When he'd finished, he turned to look at Will, piercing blue eyes, looking, unblinking, straight into, or perhaps even through, Will. For a moment, Will was paralyzed, mouth slightly open ready to speak, but completely unable to articulate words.

"This is a crime scene, you're not supposed to be in here. I'm supposed to be _alone_." Will said, his ability to speak coming back to him, in agitated sounding punches of words. He was angry; his expression was stern and what he thought – hoped – was authoritative. "I'm working, no one's meant to be around, so could you – "

"But I have just solved the case. It was her boyfriend." He said. "Sherlock Holmes" The tall man snapped, interrupting Will for the second time. He smiled. The smile was far from a reassuring one; it was a dangerous smile, one that knew people didn't like it, and more importantly, didn't care. "Rather dull, don't you think?"

Of course it was "dull". Will had only taken this case in the hope that doing something a little more mundane would help him to think about the Chesapeake Ripper case in a different way. He'd heard that scientists did it all the time; when they were working on a particularly difficult problem, they'd distract themselves with something lighter, and then the answer would just appear to them. Or it was supposed to, anyway. He was also hoping that thinking about the way "ordinary" homicides occurred, it would work in a similar way to the Garrett Jacob Hobbs copycat. If he couldn't figure out what the ripper was doing, maybe he could see what he was _not _doing. If he could find the negatives, then maybe it would lead him closer to a motive, and then to an identity. But so far, nothing had cleared his mind like the copycat cannibal had before.

The man looked Will up and down swiftly. If there was one thing Will disliked more than he disliked eye contact, it was being analyzed by strangers. He stepped closer to the man, glaring at him as he spoke.

"Listen, I don't know who you are, but I am the one who is working here, and I am asking you to leave, before I make you. I'm with the FBI; if you won't leave now, they will make you." Will threatened. The man smirked.

"I'm a consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes. Surely you've heard of me?" The man said, a hint of amused surprise in his voice. Sherlock Holmes, Will thought. When the man had said it the first time, Will hadn't thought it sounded like a _name. _More like one of those weird British sayings or a new curse word, maybe even a sneeze. The man, Sherlock Holmes, still didn't offer a hand to shake, neither did he ask Will's own name. He didn't move either. The corner of his mouth twitched. Sherlock Holmes was taller than Will Graham, and Will now was beginning to realize his threat maybe didn't seem as aggressive as he had hoped, although, thinking about it, this man didn't look particularly physically intimidating, himself; underneath that coat Will could only guess the man was slim-built, not particularly muscular, maybe a little definition around the arms; he was certainly strong in wit and intellect, but other than that...

"Sherlock!" A voice exclaimed from behind Will. Will turned around, quickly. The man jogging towards Will was short, wearing a sweater that looked like they should only be worn at Christmas time; his hair was fair and he had this concerned expression on his face, as though he didn't quite know where he was, and didn't know what to say or do about it. "Oh. Who's this?" The man asked, eyes darting between Will and Sherlock, like a rabbit caught in two separate sets of headlights, not knowing which one to run from. He too, was British.

"This," Sherlock Holmes said, slowly, "Is Will Graham. He's a special investigator for the FBI, he's working on the Chesapeake Ripper case –"Sherlock stopped abruptly, almost as though he had more to say, but had cut himself off.

"John Watson," the Christmas sweater wearing man said, holding out a hand for Will to shake. Will looked at him for a moment, his face still tensed angrily. John Watson opened and then closed his mouth awkwardly, before retracting his hand. "Am I – Are we intruding on something?" The man, John Watson said, apologetically, with a pained expression.

"No, no, not at all." Sherlock said, before Will could get a word in.

"Oh. Right. Well," John said, still sounding strangely flustered, "It looks like someone tried to stop the bleeding, and they used her coat. And the man who called us here said it wasn't him, so, Sherlock, I think the killer tried to stop her dying?" Sherlock looked at John, a smile spreading across his face; Will almost thought he looked proud, like a father who'd just watched his son score at a soccer game.

"Precisely, John. So, now that we've solved this case, Mr Graham, you can tell us about the _real_ case you're working on."

* * *

"They just walked onto the crime scene, started asking me questions, analyzing me, and then trying to find out about the Chesapeake Ripper case!" Will said, indignantly, and through gritted teeth, as he stood up from his seat, ready to start pacing the room. "And Jack Crawford just let them."

"What is it about these two men that concerns you, Will?" Hannibal asked. They were in Hannibal's office. Hannibal was sitting on one seat, while Will stood just in front, opposite, stuck between pacing away from Hannibal and sitting back down.

"They were just –" Will started, but realized he couldn't quite put his finger on it. It wasn't simply the fact that they had disturbed him; the forensics had done that before, and it hadn't bothered him half this much. "He just walked in there. Like it was his case, his crime."

"Did you feel threatened by them?" Hannibal asked. Will sat down.

"I wasn't threatened. He seemed to be studying me. And he was quick to analyze the crime scene, too."

"You're worried that he could be a better profiler than you?" Hannibal asked. Will sighed. "It is perfectly natural to feel threatened when seeing an outsider do the same job as you. Was the second man an investigator too?"

"I don't know." Will replied, suddenly realizing he hadn't asked about the second man. "I think they were partners – work partners – they were working together, that's all I know."

"Perhaps you won't have to see them again. If they found the case so dull, maybe they did not wish to stay to see another." Hannibal said, taking a sip from his red wine.

"No," mumbled Will, "They mentioned the Chesapeake Ripper. That's what they're here for."

"You think they are going to catch him?" Hannibal asked, sounding entertained by the prospect. "They wouldn't be very familiar with the history. If they are from England – "

"This guy was smart. He seemed to make connections quickly. He was almost scientific about it. It was like he could see all the connections, all at once." Will announced, exasperated. "I mean, it's not like I don't need help with the case, I'm just…" Will looked down at his hands, which were interlocked tensely.

"You're worried they're not here just to find the ripper." Hannibal said slowly, leaning back into his seat. "You are worried Jack may have brought them here for you. You think that when he analyzes you, he will look into your mind and see your fear of the darkness, ready to consume you, that he will see your empathy as an extension of yourself, as you do. That he will find your motives, your secrets; he will see the times when you have put yourself in the killer's shoes. You don't like feeling exposed. You think he will see the nights when you lie awake, thinking about how you killed Garrett Jacob Hobbs, and the nights when you see him in front of you. You're afraid he will see you as a killer." Will shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"I can assure you, if Jack Crawford wanted you profiled, I would be the first to know." Hannibal said, in an attempt to reassure. Hannibal leaned forwards. His eyes looked from Will's hands to Will's eyes. Will looked up at him, making eye contact for just a moment before leaning away, retreating into his seat, slouched. Hannibal followed suit, reluctantly moving back and sitting upright.

"I'm still not convinced that's not why you're here." Will muttered, under his breath.

"When they were analyzing you, how did you know?" Hannibal asked.

Will was silent for a moment.

"It was that look. The look you give me. The same look as you did when we first met." Will muttered, sheepishly, smiling slightly out of the corner of his mouth.

"When you told me I won't like you when you're psychoanalyzed?" Hannibal smirked. Will laughed, slightly. Will took off his glasses, and rubbed his eyes. "And you said you don't find me that interesting." Hannibal added, smiling. "Have I proven you wrong yet?"

"We'll see." Will replied, the smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. Hannibal stood up.

"I'll make you dinner." Hannibal said.


	2. The Will Graham Question

**Chapter 2: The Will Graham Question**

"Um…Can I have a tea, please?" John asked the waitress, tiredly, putting his coat over the uncomfortable, red plastic chair behind his back.

"Coffee." Said Sherlock, bluntly. The waitress raised her eyebrows, giving John that look that people often gave him: the sarcastic "wow, your friend's a real charmer" look. She nodded and walked away.

It was the evening of the same day as Sherlock and John had met Will. The diner was quiet, occupied solely by a group of teenagers, and a group of three men in a corner. Jadedly, Sherlock watched the group of teenagers in the corner; they were on a road trip; all carrying large rucksacks, under the impression they could travel through the night, never sleep and not lose any time if they just drank enough coffee and ate enough cake to keep them going for a few hours. It was getting dark outside, at that point in the evening when families sat down to eat their dinner, and when everyone was beginning to get a little tired, even though they wouldn't be going to bed for a good couple of hours.

"So, did you find out what you wanted, today?" John asked Sherlock, after deciding not to directly question what exactly that was.

"The case was extremely boring," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, "But for once that wasn't such a bad thing; it let me to focus my attention on our friend, Will Graham." Sherlock replied, saying Will's name slowly. Not waiting for John to ask, he launched into his first impressions, "Will Graham, lives alone, no wife; no wedding ring, no girlfriend; no man with a romantic interest would leave his clothes un-ironed and his beard unshaven like that. He lives alone, large number of dogs. Unusual for a man so young and so busy. Hasn't slept for… 1, 2, well, I'd be willing to bet since he returned to working on cases with the FBI. Intentionally avoided eye contact, looked down when he walked. He was going somewhere after he left though, he didn't go home; I looked up his address; he was heading in the wrong direction, so there is _someone_ he was seeing." John was no longer surprised that Sherlock would find out Will's address. John frowned, trying to see where Sherlock was going with this, wondering if he had missed some big clue, that wasn't just telling him that Will Graham liked dogs.

"So, what does that mean?" John asked. He still wasn't sure what Sherlock's interest in Will was; at first, he'd thought he was only interested in the Chesapeake Ripper case, but when John found Sherlock researching newspaper articles about Will instead, he'd started to think there was something more to this trip than just a change of scene from London's crimes. "Do you know him somehow?" John asked. He was clutching at straws. He just couldn't see the connection. Sherlock didn't respond. The waitress set down a tea, and Sherlock's coffee. "Thanks." Said John, smiling. As soon as she'd walked away, John said, "You don't know, do you? You can't figure him out." John's eyes widened in surprise, his eyebrows raised. When Sherlock didn't say anything, still, John baited him, "The all-knowing Sherlock Holmes does not know who Will Graham is." John announced, trying to hide his shock, and the grin spreading across his face.

"It is not that I don't know. But the case of Will Graham requires a little more than a glance at the hems of his trousers and the elbows of his jumper." Sherlock snapped, quickly.

John sighed.

"So this is about him then. Not the ripper. Sherlock, sometimes people are just that…people. They aren't _cases._"

"Oh, everything is a case, John," Sherlock said, matter-of-factly, smiling roguishly again. "Haven't you learnt that by now? This is exciting, isn't it?"

"Well, that's one way of describing it," exhaled John, taking a sip of his tea. He immediately pulled away. "Ouch!" He exclaimed. Mrs Hudson usually let the tea cool down before bringing John and Sherlock tea. John hadn't even realized he'd become so accustomed to it.

"Tea is hot, John."

"Yes, yes, thank you, Sherlock." John said, "Ugh, what kind of tea is this, anyway?" John set the tea down on the table. "You didn't try to poison my tea when I wasn't looking again, did you?" John asked.

"How very insulting. If I wanted to poison you, I would have done it much more inventively. Poison in the tea… how very amateur. You know, tea bags were actually an American invention."

"Hmm… you wouldn't think so." John muttered under his breath.

"Go on then. Tell me your analysis of Will Graham." Sherlock said, suddenly, leaning backward in his chair. "Who knows, maybe it takes a somewhat more average mind to figure this out." Sherlock said. John tilted his head to look at Sherlock, speechless.

"Do you ever think before you speak?" John asked, exasperatedly.

"Only when I need to." Sherlock replied quickly, "So go on, and prove me wrong. What is it about Will Graham?" John paused for a moment, tapping the side of his mug, thoughtfully.

"I think he seems…alone. We've both read the newspaper articles; the tabloids questioning if he's mentally ok to cope with his job…they're not giving him an easy time. It's a lot for a person to deal with. And if he's really empathizing with all those killers…" John stopped for a moment, looking at Sherlock to gage his reaction. Sherlock held his hands together under his chin, looking thoughtful. "You said he lived alone. He's lonely. Not dangerous, Sherlock." John said, sympathetically.

"Turns out your mind is exactly what we need, John." Sherlock whispered slowly, smiling deviously.

"Ah, no, Sherlock, no, that smile, I don't like that smile, what is that? What are you doing?" John protested, "And what about the ripper? Are we interested in that anymore, or..?" John asked, unable to keep up.

"That is what I want to see Will Graham work out." Said Sherlock, as he leapt up from his seat, energetically, pulling his coat collar further closed. "Come on, we're leaving. And don't forget to leave a tip. The waitress just got divorced. It would be rude for you to make her day even worse." John shook his head, disbelievingly, as he rummaged in his pockets for his wallet. He would never understand how Sherlock could be so good at noticing certain things, but so bad at recognizing others.


	3. A Sane Will Graham

**AN: I just wanted to say thank you for the reviews and follows and favorites I've had so far, I hope you're enjoying reading this as much as I'm enjoying writing it! I know people are waiting for Sherlock and Hannibal to meet; and don't worry, it's coming, I'm writing it as you read this (since writing this, I've published the chapter with the meeting)! Let me know what you think so far, I really appreciate any comments, and want to know what you think!**

**Chapter 3: A Sane Will Graham**

Will awoke suddenly, to the loud, shrill sound of the phone ringing. He groaned, turning over, away from the sound, almost hoping that maybe somehow, if he just didn't look at it, it would go away. The ringing continued, and now he could hear one of the dogs barking outside the bedroom door. Will gave in, picking up the phone.

"Hello?" He said, groggily, pushing strands of tangled, dark and slightly sweaty hair out of his eyes.

"Hi, Will, it's Jack. Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you, but I need you to come and take a look at something for me. There's been a murder, and it's in a similar area to an unsolved case the police had about a month ago...similar style, looks like a suicide, so we think it's the same guy. Might be a serial killer."

"Uh, yeah, sure, where…?" Will asked, pulling the pad of paper and pen he kept on the bedside table closer. Jack gave him the address, and he scribbled it down in his untidy scrawl which filled most of the page. "Ok, I'll be there."

"Don't rush yourself, Will, you don't need to be here right away. I don't think any of this is going anywhere."

"I'll be there as soon as I can." Will hung up the phone. He collapsed back on to his bed. One of the dogs was still barking.

"Alright, I'm coming," he mumbled, pulling himself off the bed, and walking over to the door. He went downstairs, feeding the dogs, making sure he sat down with them, stroking them, cooing quietly, "You hungry boy?" and "there's a good boy", "You wouldn't wake me up to go think about killing people, would you boy?" Winston just looked at him, with sad and clichéd puppy dog eyes. After feeding and tending to them, he went to the fridge and started searching for his own breakfast…which he soon realized he had neglected to buy. Will was even less of a morning person without breakfast. Upon rifling through his cupboards, he managed to find the last, crumbled, and mostly dusty remains of a box of cornflakes and poured the little milk he had left into a bowl. Will grimaced as he ate it, and it sprang to mind how actually (to his surprise), he was starting to wish Hannibal had visited this morning. He may be irritating, probing and sometimes unnerving, but the man could cook.

* * *

When Will arrived at the address he'd been given, a bungalow on the edge of town, he turned the car's engine off, undoing his seat-belt so he could sit in the car silently for a moment before going in. He closed his eyes for a second, reminding himself that whatever he was going to see in there wasn't him, that even though he would think about it, it wouldn't be him who was doing the killing. He was helping people, not hurting them. Someone tapped on the glass of his car window, making him jump and open his eyes swiftly, to see Freddie Lounds leaning down to peer through his drivers' side window. She tapped again.

"Are you gonna open the window?" She asked, smiling, confidently. Will hesitated for a moment before reluctantly winding down the window, but only half way. "Hello, Will," she said sweetly, "What are you doing here?"

"Did you decide to forget what I do for a living?" Will asked, impatiently, focusing his attention on his steering wheel, instead of looking up.

"How could I forget after you threatened me…Is that what did it, did they realize that a guy who threatens women by telling them he thinks about killing people for a living probably shouldn't be trusted?" She asked. Will glanced up. She was still smiling overly sweetly.

"What are you talking about?"

"Well, they couldn't keep you around for too long, could they? Not with all the crazy just waiting to get out." Freddie continued, her eyes practically gleaming.

"Listen, I have a job I need to be doing. So if you're finished with your morbid fascination..." Will wound the window up quickly, opening the door with an aggressive, unexpected motion. Freddie jumped back. Will slammed the car door behind him, turning away from Freddie to lock the door.

"Oh, didn't you hear, Will?" Freddie started up again. Will stopped. "Maybe you don't have a job to do."

"What do you mean?" Will asked; he was slow, quiet, yet assertive.

"I mean that there's a lovely, charming, tall, British man inside, and he seems to be doing a fine job of…well, whatever it is you do…but without the crazy. Is this a sane Will Graham they've found?" Freddie continued, obviously recovered from the way she'd jumped when the car door had closed. Will clenched his fists. "Looks like Jack's found a less faulty version. Fixed all the bugs." Freddie smirked, walking closer to Will. Will said nothing, pushing past her to walk up the steps to the house.

"Hey, don't shoot the messenger, Will."

Will marched up the stone steps towards the house, angrily, pushing past police tape, flashing his FBI badge at a couple of police, hurriedly. The front door was open. He walked straight through it, but was immediately met by Jack, who stopped Will dead in his tracks with a hand on his shoulder. Will flinched at his touch. Jack looked concerned; he could see the irrational look on Will's face.

"Will, calm down, just wait a minute, Sherlock's in there –"

"I know he's in there, Jack, that's the problem!" Will hissed, angrily, stepping back so Jack's hand could no longer reach his shoulder. Jack let his arm fall back to his side.

"He got here about twenty minutes ago; he's one of Britain's best detectives; he's just taking a look."

"So, what, are you basically just employing this guy now? Did you call him?" Will demanded, not bothering to keep his voice down. He noticed a few heads turn in his direction, from one of the rooms just inside the house.

"I didn't call him, Will, he just heard there was something going on, and he came over to help with the investigation while you weren't here, that's all." Jack said, calmly, trying to make eye contact with Will and get his attention.

"Don't you think that's a little suspicious? What, did he just happen to be in the area? Or have a feeling somebody had been killed?!" Will exclaimed.

"Will, can you keep your voice down? He's trying to work in there." Jack said, loudly. Will stepped around Jack, standing in the doorway to watch Sherlock. Sure enough, there was Sherlock, surrounded by the forensics and investigators, pointing around the room, animatedly. As Will watched, Sherlock animatedly clapped his hands together and sprang to life, moving around the room he was in, spinning around and pointing excitedly.

Jack pulled Will away from the door.

"Let's step outside for a minute, Will." He said. Will shrugged Jack off, but followed him out onto the steps anyway. "You don't like this guy?" Jack asked, looking around to make sure no one else was around as he asked Will. Will shook his head, looking just over Jack's right shoulder. "I know you don't like other people around when you're trying to work, but he'll be done soon and you can take a look yourself. I'll get everyone out of the room."

"But why did you let him in there? What is he here for?"

"He wanted to help. And I thought it might take the pressure off you a bit. You said I was pushing you –"

"Somehow this Sherlock guy doesn't strike me as someone who just wants to help." Will said, quickly, and quietly, glancing up at Jack to make eye contact for a second. Jack nodded.

"Ok, well, he's doing a good job. Let him help you Will. He's on your side. I need you both to find out who did this, before they do it again. And if you let him in, you might be able to find the Ripper too." Will nodded a couple of times, looking away, and gritting his teeth. So that's what Jack wanted.

"Well, I can't find the Ripper if I've got Freddie Lounds writing up articles about how I'm mentally _unstable _and that you've replaced me with this sharper, safer version of me." Will said.

"Will, no one is replacing you. I want you to work together. Can you do that for me, just for now?" Jack asked, sternly. Will jutted out his jaw, defensively.

"Fine. Just come and tell me when he's done." Will turned away from Jack, but heard Jack walking away. A part of him was curious to see how Sherlock worked. He was also curious to know why everyone seemed so captivated by him – even Freddie Lounds seemed to take a shining to him. But that didn't mean he was going to co-operate.

* * *

Within a few minutes, Sherlock arrived outside. He stood, a little too close for comfort, next to Will, hands in his coat pockets, and a smug look on his face.

"The body was found just inside the kitchen. Her coffee was on the counter; she drank most of it on her way home. She was hanged, leading us to believe she did it herself, but it's clear she didn't. The stool was at slightly the wrong angle; she hadn't taken off her shoes yet; she'd only just got in. People don't kill themselves as soon as they get into their house. The killer wanted us to know it wasn't a suicide, but all that effort of tying a noose around one of the wooden beams just for a substandard job? Unlikely. Maybe he had a fetish for suicides, or maybe he wanted to distract us from the _reason_ she was killed. She was strangled before she was hanged. She was obviously moved after death. There's dust and coffee on her trousers; she spilled her coffee on the floor..." Sherlock spoke quickly. "But that's not the most interesting part." Sherlock continued.

"And what is the most interesting part?" Will asked, skeptically.

"She lives alone - her family are nowhere nearby. She was killed in the early hours this morning. No one will have noticed she was gone until Monday when she doesn't show up for work, though her sparse social calendar suggests we wouldn't have been notified for several days at least, before anyone got suspicious. Yet somebody phoned the police. From inside her house."

"So the killer alerted the police…" Will said quietly.

* * *

Will entered the kitchen.

_She walks home, carrying her coffee. He follows her. It's early in the morning, almost beginning to get light. There's nobody around at this hour, not in this part of town. He waits in the trees near the house, as he sees the headlights of her car illuminating the front door. She gets out of the car, carrying her coffee cup and her handbag and walks towards the front door. He follows. He is confident, striding purposefully towards her. She looks for her keys in her bag to unlock the door. He isn't quiet about making a noise as he reaches her. She turns around, but she's too slow, too quiet to scream for help, and in an area too isolated for anyone to notice even if she did. She drops her coffee; the remainder of it spills across the concrete steps. Regardless, his first move is to cover her mouth with a gloved hand, pulling her forcefully towards him, wrapping his arm around her neck, keeping her in a tightly to him so she can't move__. He stiffens his arm around her neck. She tries to put up a fight, but she's too sluggish, and too weak. She tries to elbow him in the ribs, a bold move if he were a small boy, but not for him. And now he's putting pressure on her windpipe. She struggles and he pushes her into the wall, causing little more than a graze on her arm, turning her towards him, both hands now around her neck. He wants to see her face. Her struggle is fruitless, as he feels her body go limp soon after._

_He lets her body slide to the floor of the doorstep. The hem of her trousers soaks up a little of the coffee from the spillage, something that the forensics would overlook later, but Will and Sherlock would both notice. He picks up the keys from the floor. How thoughtful, she'd even taken the keys out for him. He laughs at the relative ease of the crime. He unlocks her door, pushing it open. He drags her body across the threshold, leaving her against the wall of the kitchen as he goes back to pick up the cardboard coffee cup, leaving it on the kitchen counter and closes the door behind him. He pulls out a length of rope from his pocket, looking up and seeing the beams holding up the roof. He hurriedly secures the rope, then lifts the body up carefully to fit the noose around her neck. He places a stool, already handily in the kitchen underneath her, standing next to her for a moment, before kicking it over, imitating the way she would have done. The angle was wrong and he knew it, but it was the idea that mattered, not the execution; he doesn't care for the detail; he doesn't want to deceive: he doesn't want them to just look over this and ignore it. He's done being clever and ignored. He knows he should have taken off her shoes, but now he doesn't want to touch her again. He wants to leave her, preserved; he doesn't want to spoil her._

_He looks at his handiwork, proud. He feels the trail of breadcrumbs is sufficient, yet cryptic enough that he won't be found straight away: he wants to be free to kill again, but when he does, he wants there to be no mistake that it was him, not like last time. He wants the recognition he deserves. He looks to the phone. He needs to tell someone. He doesn't call an ambulance; no, he doesn't regret his actions; no one can help her now, and he doesn't want them to. He wants his work to be seen, to be appreciated. He's getting desperate: the last murder didn't have the effect he'd wanted. He doesn't want to leave it late; he wants them to see it now He's eager for them to find the body. He calls the police, still wearing gloves; he puts on a concerned voice; he tells them something terrible has happened, that somebody has taken their own life. He tells them to hurry. They tell him to wait, and that they'll be with him in no time. "I hope so." He says, smiling. He hangs up the phone. He takes another look, still smiling. "This is my design."_


	4. Doctors

**Chapter 4: Doctors**

Once Jack had left Will, he phoned Hannibal. He'd been watching Will since the start of the morning and he'd decided he could do with Hannibal's support. Not only was it going to be difficult to convince Will to work well with the two British investigators, Will was outnumbered, and looking more and more uncomfortable and unwell with each glance Jack gave him. Hannibal seemed to be able to reassure Will when he was like this, and Jack suspected it would be useful to have Hannibal on hand, if what Sherlock had been saying about the complexity of the killer was true.

"Jack, I wasn't expecting you to call." Hannibal said, answering the phone.

"Are you busy right now?" Jack asked.

"Not currently. Today I had only one patient." Hannibal answered boredly.

"Sounds like a relaxing day. Wish I could have one of them sometime. I've got Will looking at a case at the minute, and the two British guys I told you about are here. I'd like you to have a look. I think Will would like you to be here too."

"Of course. It would be my pleasure." Hannibal said. On the other end of the phone, Hannibal was smiling, as he took his coat from the coat hook in his office, already getting ready to leave.

"I don't know if he's said anything, but we're having some trouble getting Will to work with these guys..." Jack sighed.

"I think I have a solution to that problem." Hannibal interrupted before Jack could finish.

Hannibal was an unusual man, Jack thought as he hung up the phone, but whatever he did seemed to work, and Will let him in; that was good enough for Jack.

* * *

When Will opened his eyes, John was standing in the doorway of the kitchen; he looked slightly uncomfortable and was frowning a little, with his hands in the pockets of a brown jacket, and his shoulders hunched. Everyone else had been instructed by Jack to stay outside and Will was surprised that John would be the one to venture back in.

"Morning," John said, with a cheery, yet sympathetic smile. Still feeling hazy, Will nodded, closing his eyes for a second. His hands were shaking, as he moved his arm back from where he was reaching out towards the phone on the wall. Will turned away from John, breathing heavily. He leaned on the kitchen table for support with one hand, running the other through his hair desperately, his mind racing with images of his hands around the dead woman's throat, while the woman's face morphed from her own to Abigail's, to Garret Jacob Hobbs', to Sherlock's.

Will felt a small and delicate hand on his back. The images stopped.

"Are you alright?" John asked him. "Here, maybe we should take a step outside for a moment." John said, putting his other hand on Will's shaking arm and turning him away from the table. Will allowed John to walk him out to the hallway of the house, moving awkwardly, slowly and hesitantly. "Are you alright to stand?" John asked, once they reached the doorway. He glanced outside at the steps to the house, distrustfully. Will nodded.

"I'm fine." Outside, he could see Sherlock approaching.

"You sure?" John asked, slowly taking his hand from Will's back, now that Will was standing up straight. Will took off his glasses, dragging his eyes away from Sherlock and instead staring at the driveway.

"Yeah, I'm fine. I just wasn't feeling myself." Will said. John nodded, not knowing quite what to say.

* * *

Hannibal arrived at the house, as the forensics were looking at the body, after Will had left the room. Will was standing uncomfortably, looking into the kitchen, frowning, while Sherlock and John looked deep in discussion a few meters away from him. Sherlock looked excited; his eyes were wide and bright, filled with life, like a man engrossed in his favorite hobby. Hannibal smiled, knowing already which was Dr Watson and which was Mr Holmes. He could tell Sherlock's passion for a good mystery immediately, and couldn't help but think how fun it would be to play with Sherlock. Maybe he would have to set up a mystery of his own; he was definitely tempted. He'd also heard a lot about his intellect and was intrigued to see just how much Sherlock could find out about a person just by looking at them.

"You must be Mr Holmes, and you must be Doctor Watson." Hannibal said, extending a hand to Sherlock and then to John in turn. "I'm Doctor Lecter." He said, smiling. Both John and Sherlock shook his hand. Sherlock's handshake was firm, very much matching Hannibal's own. This made Hannibal smile even more. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously.

"Nice to meet you," John said, beaming. Hannibal got a feeling that John must overcompensate a lot for the coldness of his partner. Will watched from the other side of the room, simply nodding to Hannibal in acknowledgement. Then he frowned.

"Doctor Watson?" Will interjected. "You're a doctor?" John looked surprised.

"Yes. Well, not practicing. But – wait, how did you know I was a doctor?" He asked Hannibal, cocking his head to one side to look up at the taller, impeccably dressed man. "I hadn't mentioned to anyone…" John looked from Hannibal to Will.

"Oh, it's obvious John!" Sherlock snapped. "You dress like a doctor. He would've seen how still your hands are. You still talk as though everyone is a patient and you have to be polite to them. Or he could have just looked you up."

"I have ways of knowing a fellow Doctor when I see one, Mr Holmes." It may have just been Sherlock, but he was sure he heard an emphasis on the word "Mr" when Hannibal addressed him. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, looking properly at Hannibal.

He was dressed very smartly; he had money. He certainly liked to take care of himself and took the greatest care of his appearance. Not a single hair was out of place, nor was there a single crease present in his suit. The colors he wore were stylish, yet inoffensive, warm colors, intended to relax people. He worked with people, unstable people, people who he needed to trust him. He kept in shape, but he didn't exercise as such; he didn't have the look of a man who visited the gym or partook in team sports. In fact, he probably didn't have a great many friends; this was something Sherlock recognized easily; they had that in common. His hobby was a solitary one. He had a strong handshake too; he had tough hands. Maybe his hobby involved tools. Maybe golf, maybe hunting… Sherlock tried to conceal a frown at his inability to discern anything concrete about the nature of this Doctor Lecter.

"You're a psychiatrist." Sherlock said. That much was easy enough to see. Hannibal's hands were soft and not dry, suggesting he didn't wash them after every patient he saw. He was too clean to be a practicing doctor, and his shoes were too expensive. Doctors always wore comfortable, and often terribly unattractive shoes. Hannibal didn't spend a lot of time standing around in those shoes. Sherlock could imagine him sitting on a comfortable sofa, asking probing questions, nodding and psychoanalyzing. Yes, that was it, psychoanalyzing Will. Sherlock had seen the look he'd given Will when he'd arrived. It was only brief, but the look was protective, yet superior, maybe even a little possessive.

"You're Will's psychiatrist. Tell me, I'd be interested to know the extent of the damage of his profession."

"And I'd be interested to know the extent of yours. But only one of us is a doctor who is capable of knowing that, Mr Holmes." Hannibal said, smiling slightly. Hannibal immediately recognized that Sherlock was already over-compensating for how little he could find out about Hannibal; his hostile reaction showed exactly how threatened Sherlock felt by him; Sherlock was clearly desperate to get one over on Hannibal, and had thought insulting Will would be the way to do that.

Will looked up and smirked. John looked uneasily at Sherlock, who simply kept his eyes locked on Hannibal, unblinking.

"I'm sorry about him, sometimes he doesn't realize – " John began, looking anxiously between Will and Hannibal.

"I can see that. It is no trouble, Dr Watson. You must spend a lot of time apologizing." Hannibal said, already beginning to work out how Sherlock's mind worked, and feeling proud that of himself. "I'd be interested to hear about your time in the medical profession, Dr Watson. I imagine yours holds more interesting stories than my own." Hannibal said, turning to John.

"Ah, I, well, I suppose I have a few," John replied, nervously, scratching his head lightly. He wasn't used to being asked about his time as a doctor. The most he'd got from Sherlock was "Afghanistan or Iraq?" Sherlock continued to stare at Hannibal.

"If you will be staying for a while, I'd like to have you for dinner," Hannibal said. He smiled, warmly. John looked slightly taken aback. Being invited to dinner at a strangers' house was a little disconcerting. John found himself wondering whether this formally dressed psychiatrist was looking to hear war stories, or if John was being propositioned. Was dinner with a man in a suit a date? Or if the man was a psychiatrist, did that make it an appointment?

"And you too, Mr Holmes. I think we would have a lot to discuss." Hannibal said, still smiling. John relaxed slightly.

"Um, yeah, that would be…nice, wouldn't it, Sherlock? We haven't eaten a decent meal since we've got here." John said, forcing a more confident smile than he felt like.

"Then let me be the first to offer you one." Hannibal said. "Now, tell me about this case."


	5. Working Together

**Chapter 5: Working Together**

After briefing Hannibal about the case, the four of them surveyed the crime-scene. Or rather, all of them but Sherlock surveyed the crime-scene. Sherlock's eyes were moving between Hannibal and Will, a contrasting pair, with Hannibal stood calmly, hands in the pockets of his blue pinstripe suit, and Will fumbling with his own hands, and pushing back his hair every few seconds, fidgeting anxiously.

"It's odd that the killer phoned the police." John said thoughtfully, his brow furrowed. "Why would he – or she – do that?"

"He." Will said, quickly, glancing at Hannibal as he said it. This was a man's crime; all the signs pointed to it. "He wants us to notice him; he wants to be recognized. Either he thinks he's doing good, so he's proud of his work, or he wants the attention, wants us to find him." John looked up at Will, uncertainly.

"But why would a killer want to be found?" John asked. Sherlock remained silent, observing Will, curiously. Forensics moved around them, taking pictures and making notes. Will lowered his voice as they walked past, eyes fixed on his shoes.

"He's looking to get something out of it. Closure maybe, of some sort. He wants us to know he's not a nobody. He's bored of hiding in the dark. He didn't hesitate to phone the police. He doesn't feel any guilt."

"In his eyes, the victims deserve it? He sees the victims as the criminals." Hannibal asked quietly, speaking to Will, but looking at Sherlock.

"Maybe. He's not afraid of getting caught anyway. He doesn't see any punishment at the end. And that's not because he's careless: he was careful with arranging this."

"That's what Sherlock said," John muttered, as he looked to Sherlock for his input, but Sherlock looked deep in thought.

"He's playing some sort of game. I just…I can't see what the objective is." Will sighed tiredly, avoiding John's eyes.

"It appears this work is taking its toll on you, Will, just as I expected." Sherlock said, quickly but quietly. Will ignored him.

"But you have volunteered no suggestions as to the objective yourself, Mr Holmes." Hannibal responded. "Has nobody ever told you that putting others down won't make yourself smarter?" Hannibal smirked; he was beginning to realise that the way to handle Sherlock was to treat him like a spoilt child, even using the same patronising language.

Sherlock's facial expression changed quickly to one of defiance. John began talking before Sherlock could respond.

"Do you think he'll kill again?" John asked, trying but failing to catch Will's eye. Will swallowed anxiously, nodding his head.

"I'm certain of it."

"Sherlock, what do you - ?" John began.

"The coffee cup!" Sherlock exclaimed loudly and suddenly, making Will jump slightly. John looked to Sherlock, mouth open, about to complain about being interrupted. "She was killed outside; we know that from the spilled coffee. He wanted to hang her inside; that's sensible enough. But when she dropped the coffee cup, why did he pick it back up again?"

"Because it would be evidence," John replied, "We'd know something happened outside." John shrugged.

"But we already know that." Sherlock snapped, his eyes darting from John to Hannibal to Will, who shifted uncomfortably, playing with his glasses. "And he knows we know that. Why not put it in the bin? Why not take it with him? Why did he leave it, out on the table, in plain sight?" Sherlock continued, loudly. Will looked up to Sherlock, realising what Sherlock was getting at. By now, Beverly Katz was also watching Sherlock from the other side of the room.

"It's a clue. He wanted us to see it. Wanted us to notice there was something wrong about it." Will muttered, looking at Hannibal, who was giving him an expectant look.

"Exactly!" Sherlock exclaimed, clicking his fingers in Will's direction. "When someone is as meticulous as this with their clues, there's no such thing as coincidence. He planned it. Ooh, I do love a good game. Looks like we're going to get some coffee."

* * *

All it took was a phone call to the coffee shop to know where they needed to go next. When Jack phoned and learned that one of their employees hadn't turned up to work that morning, he found the address and they immediately headed towards the apartment.

"Do you think this guy could be the killer?" Jack asked, keeping his voice down, as he walked alongside Will and Hannibal, just ahead of Sherlock and John, up the stairs towards the apartment. Will shook his head.

"No. That's too simple. There's more than one level to his game. This is his next victim."

When they arrived, the door was unlocked. Jack led them inside, holding out a gun. Both Hannibal and Sherlock glanced uneasily at Will's hand, resting shakily on his gun at his waist. It didn't take more than one look at the apartment to see that they were too late. The apartment was small, and from the doorway they could see straight into the blood-stained room where the victim would have slept just that night, spattered with blood, staining the carpet, the bed, and the walls behind the headboard. The body was on the bed: a man lying on his back, arms on either side of him, a gun lying next to his right hand; he'd been shot in the head. His uniform too was stained dark with blood, including the name badge, which beneath the red could be read as "Chris Clarke."

"Ok, nobody touch anything until we get some gloves." Jack said, calmly, walking out of the room, putting his phone to his ear.

"I need a report on the death last month." Sherlock said, quietly and quickly. "Yes, it's all starting to fit together rather nicely," he muttered, as he walked closer to the body, peering around the room.

"The killer didn't phone the police this time," John said, quietly, staying back from the body. "Why not?"

"Because he'd already told us where to go." Will murmured. "Find out who the gun is licensed to." He said, as Jack re-entered the room.

"It must be the victim's, a murderer wouldn't leave their own weapon at the scene of the crime," John protested quickly, taken aback by Will's apparent naïvety.

"That's what I'm saying. But I don't think a coffee shop worker would have any reason to own a gun either." Will said.

"Oh no, the gun isn't the killer's." Sherlock breathed, walking to stand alongside Will and look towards the scene. "This is our next clue. See the way it's organised?" Sherlock said loudly, "Just like before, the gun next to the body, just like the coffee cup. Just like some apparently mundane item that none of the unobservant investigators would never have thought twice about beside the body of the first victim a month ago."

"So if we're in time, could we find the next victim before the killer actually kills them?" John asked, optimistically.

"They've gotten slack after you didn't get the first clue. That's why he's been so desperate, making the clues almost too obvious. He won't have killed the next victim yet."

"Well then, let's find who the gun belongs to, and let's catch us a killer."

**AN: This is so much fun to write, I hope you're enjoying it! Let me know what you think! And thanks for all the reviews, follows and favourites so far.**


	6. Hors d'oeuvres

**Chapter 6: Hors d'oeuvres**

Will set the silver cutlery down on the table, carefully, as Hannibal had told him to. Hannibal was very precise about the way he wanted the table to be set out, and Will didn't want to hear Hannibal's polite and sympathetic, "Thank you, Will, it's fine," while Hannibal would wait for Will to leave the room before reorganizing the table. Will realized he would probably get that response anyway. If it were him, he'd be eating take-away Chinese food from a tray on his lap in front of the fireplace, with his dogs lying on the sofa around him. Will walked back into the kitchen, where Hannibal was busy preparing dinner.

"That smells nice." Will commented. Hannibal looked up from the vegetables he was cutting and smiled.

"Thank you, Will."

Will sighed, watching Hannibal cutting.

"I don't see why you're still having them over for dinner. I mean, there's nothing to talk about. The killer's left us without any more clues…" he trailed off. After finding out who the gun belonged to, the foursome and Jack had rushed to the address of the man who owned the gun, only to find him missing. They asked his workplace, to find no-one had seen him since Friday, called his friends, to find they had no idea where he was, and even after Sherlock's endless scouring of the gun owner's apartment, they failed to find any clues whatsoever to his whereabouts. There was no sign of a struggle; no one had broken in; the neighbours hadn't noticed any disturbance; there were no clues. Sherlock had become more and more frustrated. By the end of the search, Sherlock could tell everything about the man, apart from what had happened to him that weekend and where he was now. All they could do now was wait, to see if the man turned up, dead, or alive, to see if the killer had left them another clue, and for the FBI to launch a potentially fruitless investigation into the disappearance. Until then, they had no leads. The killer was smarter than they originally thought. He'd offered up the clues too easily, but now he had the upper hand, and they had to wait for him to make the next move.

"Can't you just un-invite them?" Will asked.

"That would be rude, Will," Hannibal scolded Will. "Besides, Jack expressed an interest in them working on other cases, so even if this one doesn't offer any more, they will be around a little longer."

"The Chesapeake Ripper case?" Will asked, through gritted teeth, irritated that he couldn't speak his mind about Sherlock and John without disappointing Hannibal. "It's not like they can help us if there aren't even any deaths happening to work on."

Thoughtfully, Hannibal poured cooking oil into a dish and brushed in the vegetables after it with a sweeping motion.

"Seeing them in a less pressured environment like this will help you to work together." Hannibal carried the dish to the oven. The doorbell rang. "Just in time." Hannibal said, smiling, taking off his apron from around his waist with a swift motion.

As Hannibal approached the door, he could hear the hushed whispers of his guests behind it. Undoubtedly, they didn't expect him to be able to hear, but Hannibal had not only a powerful sense of smell (he could practically smell John's eagerness to make a good impression already), but keen hearing too.

"Ok, Sherlock, just promise me you'll be polite, ok?" John's voice travelled through the door.

"I don't know what you mean, John," Sherlock replied.

"Just don't do that thing that you do. When normal people go to dinner, they sit and eat, and make small talk and be polite…"

"Ugh, small talk." Sherlock sighed.

"And they definitely do not ask about or make assumptions about another guest's mental health." John said, firmly.

"They're not assumptions, John, they're deductions. Facts, if you like." Sherlock said, briskly.

"I give up," muttered John.

"Don't worry, I'll play nice." Sherlock said, quietly. "Relax, John!" Hannibal smiled to himself, before opening the door. Hannibal greeted them with a warm, reassuring, psychiatrist's smile. This would be fun, he thought to himself.

"Good evening." He said. Sherlock was standing beside John, with a slightly overplayed smile, showing his teeth, wearing a dark suit, but no tie. John was holding a bottle of red wine in one hand, looking slightly concerned.

"Hi," John said. Sherlock smiled some more and nodded.

"Evening." Sherlock said.

"Come in," Hannibal gestured them inside his house. They stepped in. John handed over the bottle of wine.

"You probably want to chill it, it might've got a bit warm on the way over…" John said, sheepishly. Hannibal smiled politely, taking the wine and wondering why his guests always insisted on providing wine which was consistently sub-par compared to the dinner. He did, however appreciate the thought. Hannibal made a note to try not to injure John in the crossfire of any unpleasant verbal exchanges that would undoubtedly unfold later in the evening. Sherlock was already looking around, analyzing, as soon as he was inside the house.

"What a charming house this is." Sherlock commented. "So…clean."

"Thank you, Mr Holmes. I like to keep things ordered."

"Hmm…yes, you do." Sherlock said, inhaling deeply. Hannibal and John both waited for Sherlock to comment on the scent, but no such comment came.

"Smells lovely." John said, quickly filling the silence.

"Follow me into the dining room," Hannibal said. John shot Sherlock a warning glance, while Hannibal's back was turned. Sherlock and John followed.

When they entered the dining room, Will was setting wine glasses down on the table.

"Oh, he has you well-trained," Sherlock said, quietly, sounding impressed, almost in awe. Will looked up, standing back from the table, shaking his head, looking amused.

"Setting the table was really the least I could do." Will said, trying to be civil, taking a seat. John and Sherlock took seats next to each other, Sherlock sitting directly opposite Will.

"That's not what I meant…" Sherlock muttered, so quietly that only John heard. John kicked him under the table.

"Ow!" Sherlock exclaimed. "If only I could train my friends as well as you can, Dr Lecter." Sherlock teased. John scowled.

"I'll be right back. I'll put this in the refrigerator. For now, some red that I have already chilled?" Hannibal asked Sherlock and John, gesturing to the wine, and completely ignoring Sherlock's comment.

"That would be great," replied John. Hannibal was barely gone a few seconds. He didn't want to risk the tension escalating too quickly in his absence. Sherlock should at least try the food first.

When Hannibal returned, he poured the wine.

"So, how long have you two been together?" Hannibal asked, smiling, as he poured Sherlock some wine. Will looked up, frowning slightly, wondering if he'd missed something. John rolled his eyes.

"We're not – " he gestured between him and Sherlock, hurriedly, "We're not together." Will looked to Hannibal, whose smile remained, revealing that he believed otherwise. Hannibal moved on to pour John's wine, taking a deep breath in through his nose as he did so. "We just work together." John said, embarrassed.

"John is my friend. I have had to reject his advances, as I am married to my work." Sherlock said, deadpan. John shook his head, resisting the urge to bury his head in his hands. Great, he thought, now Sherlock was showing off.

"Sherlock obviously mistook my friendliness for something else." John said, jokingly. Hannibal smirked, leaving to fetch some appetizers.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" John asked Will, once Hannibal had left the room. Will smirked.

"No." He replied, taking a sip of his wine.

"Your work gets in the way," Sherlock commented, "I hear you need stability for a functioning romantic relationship." Will frowned.

"What are you trying to-" he began, but Hannibal interrupted him, walking in with plates of appetizers.

"Hors d'oeuvres." Hannibal announced, placing two plates in the space between Will and Sherlock.

"That looks great." John said, quickly. "What are they?"

"Mushroom, goat's cheese, and prosciutto crostini, and some toasted breads and pâté." Hannibal smiled. This was the first test. He was intrigued to see whether Sherlock could figure out his secret. He wondered whether the consulting detective's talents stretched to discerning a different type of meat. In his mind, Hannibal doubted that he would be able to; he was very sure of his own cooking abilities, but was still eager to see Sherlock's reaction. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He was vaguely interested, Hannibal could see that much, though not as interested as Sherlock was in Will. It could simply be that Sherlock simply wasn't used to this type of dining. "Help yourselves, please." Hannibal said, sitting down, carefully helping himself to some crostini. His three guests all followed suit.

"This is really nice," John said, before he'd finished his mouthful. Hannibal supressed a grimace at his poor table manners and instead smiled, thanking him. Sherlock was quiet.

"Mr Holmes, I hope this is alright for you?" Hannibal asked, calmly.

"Interesting…" he murmured. Hannibal watched Sherlock curiously, in anticipation. "It's so carefully prepared. I get the impression from the decoration of your house that you must have some very precise recipes you follow. Do you apply this sort of precision to every aspect of your life? But John is correct, it's good." A part of Hannibal was almost disappointed that Sherlock had failed to pick up on anything other than Hannibal's precision and care for his food, but at the same time, he was proud that he had fooled the great consulting detective into accidental cannibalism. He was beginning to worry that Sherlock wouldn't be as much of an entertaining challenge as he had initially thought. Sherlock helped himself to one of the small toasted breads and some pâté.

"Liver." He said. "You made it yourself." It wasn't a question.

"Yes." Hannibal answered anyway. It was amusing how Sherlock was so quick to comment on anything he knew, however simple, and always had the tenacity to act as though he were the only one he could recognize such a simple thing. It would be so easy for Hannibal to lead Sherlock down the complete wrong alley without him even realizing…

"My, you really are a keen cook, Dr Lecter. It must be relaxing after dealing with your patients all day. You must get tired of listening to people's problems and you seem like the type of man who likes to spend some time alone at the end of the day to indulge in a hobby." Sherlock said. He raised his wine glass to taste the wine. Sherlock had known Hannibal had an artistic outlet somewhere; now he knew it was cooking.

"You are correct, Mr Holmes, I find cooking most relaxing, and I take great pride in it. My food isn't as talkative as my patients." Hannibal said.

"Well, it definitely tastes nicer." John said, happily. If only they knew, Hannibal thought, smiling to himself.


	7. Takes One To Know One

**Chapter 7: Takes one to know one**

John was impressed at how well Sherlock was behaving himself. That was, until the main course.

"This is really, really delicious." John said, after taking another huge mouthful of food. "Honestly, I haven't eaten anything this good in…well, probably forever."

"Thank you, Dr Watson," Hannibal was particularly proud of this dish. He'd chosen the healthiest, fittest, yet unbearably rude person he had encountered. This had made the kill a little more difficult than usual and there had been a slight struggle, but it was worth it; Hannibal only wanted the finest meat to serve his guests.

"Call me John," John replied quickly, piling food onto his fork, fitting as much on there as he could, hurriedly, as though if he couldn't eat it in one go, it would disappear forever. "Really though, just wow, I've never had anything like this before."

"You mustn't have much time for cooking, being so busy with all your cases in London. I'm sure if you had the time, you would be able to learn."

"What an excellent idea, John, you should learn to cook like this. Maybe then we can live off something other than beans on toast and take-away food. John has a terrible habit." Sherlock said, tiredly looking at John.

"If you actually went out to buy food every now and then, maybe we would. And Sherlock, you don't eat half of the time!" John exclaimed, loudly, waving his fork in the air.

"Now that," Hannibal muttered, "Is a terrible habit."

"Maybe if you didn't get into arguments with the chip and pin machine, I would be able to eat." Sherlock replied to John, ignoring Hannibal.

"So, Mr Holmes," Hannibal said, distracting himself from John's disgusting display of bad manners and diffusing the tension which clearly existed between the two men, "I hear you have a remarkable gift. Is it true you can tell everything about a man simply by looking at him?" Hannibal pushed some rare meat skilfully onto his fork. John laughed, nearly choking on his food, coughing loudly. John's eyes moved from Hannibal to Sherlock, just waiting for the inevitable correction Sherlock was about to make.

"It is not a gift, Dr Lecter. It's science." said Sherlock, firmly, setting down his knife and fork beside his plate, which still had much food remaining, "Certain things about a person are unbearably obvious if you know where to look. For example, Will here." Will looked up, blinking quickly. He'd been eating quietly, looking at his plate more than the people, while listening intently to their conversations and occasionally joining in, but appearing more interested in his food.

"You haven't slept properly since Jack first asked for your help. The nightmares haven't got any better, have they? You're haunted by the face of the man you killed, not only in your nightmares and hallucinations, but in the face of his daughter." Will opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock continued, quickly, "Yes," Sherlock noticed Will's face fall even further at the mention of Abigail. Hannibal said nothing, but watched Sherlock, wondering how far he would push Will, and how much Will would take. "The guilt must be unbearable. Don't you ever just wish that face would go away? She scares you, doesn't she? You must know some creative ways you could kill her. In fact, you must have learnt a lot in your line of work. Enough to pick up a specific method of murder, perhaps imitate a killer."

"Sherlock, don't." John raised his voice, but he already knew he had no chance. Everyone was quiet for a moment. Will didn't know what to say.

"I'm not a murderer." Will said, through gritted teeth.

"Is that right, Dr Lecter? You're a psychiatrist: you must know exactly what is going on in Will's head," Sherlock said, threateningly. "You're an anxious killer, aren't you, Will? I bet it took you more than one shot to kill him. I bet you carried on even after his wounds were fatal. I bet there was a part of you that enjoyed it-"

"Enough, Mr Holmes!" Hannibal snapped loudly. Sherlock grinned, knowingly, as he leaned back in his chair, smugly. As he'd thought, Hannibal was quick to defend Will. Will was looking shaky and unnerved. He wasn't used to being analysed by anyone but Hannibal, and even Hannibal wasn't this…violent. "Will killed Garett Jacob Hobbs to save Abigail's life. He had killed many girls, and would have killed another if it weren't for Will. Even you, Sherlock Holmes, you hide under a mask of apathy, but you would kill, to save John. I know he would for you." Sherlock's face fell slightly. "Your own friend did the same as Will. Perhaps before you start making accusations, you should think more carefully in future." Sherlock frowned. No one knew that John had saved his life when Sherlock had been about to take that pill with the murderous cab driver when they had first met. John hadn't even been a suspect. Sherlock was about to deny knowing what Hannibal was talking about, but John spoke first.

"How did you know?" John asked, quietly, looking worried.

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone." Hannibal said, smiling at Sherlock, who was looking increasingly angry. Now Hannibal had hit a nerve, in the same way that Sherlock had done with him. He was playing his game, perfectly.

"But how did you know?" Sherlock demanded, loudly.

"Some things about a person are painfully obvious if you know where to look." Hannibal repeated what Sherlock had said earlier, "I am a psychiatrist. I can see when a man would kill to save his friend's life. And I can tell when he has done so." There was a moment of silence.

After a while, Will spoke.

"I think you've been reading too much of Freddie Lounds," Will muttered, looking at Sherlock, with a dark laugh.

"Freddie Lounds?" John asked, "Who is he?" He looked confused, and anxious for the conversation to return to a lighter topic..

"She." Will corrected him.

"Freddie Lounds…" Sherlock muttered. "I've read a lot of people. I don't care much for names unless someone is particularly remarkable. Who is she?"

"You met her earlier," Will said, "She said she'd seen you when you were at the house where the woman was killed earlier. She's a reporter… although I use that word loosely when it comes to her."

Will pushed his food around his plate, so he didn't have to look at Sherlock. He could feel Sherlock's eyes watching him.

"Ohhhh." Sherlock exclaimed, realising where he'd heard the name. "Curly ginger hair? Annoying voice? _Extremely _irritating ability to continue asking questions without stopping? Lives alone. Spends too much time on the computer. Makes up a load of bull and publishes it because she thinks that knowledge makes her powerful, when actually, she doesn't know anything, and that's her biggest insecurity? Very strong-willed though. Very alone. Spends a lot of time snooping around places she shouldn't be. Drinks coffee to be able to persist with that painful personality of hers. She's obsessed with you, Will. Ugh, that woman, so painfully obvious. Everything about her! She has a strong character though, I'll give her that. Very brave."

Will looked startled.

"I am so sorry." John apologized quickly. "If she's your friend, or if that offended you, he doesn't mean it, he doesn't think before he speaks." John looked horrified at the amount Sherlock had just said. Will laughed.

"Oh, not even slightly!" He looked up, making eye contact with Sherlock properly for the first time. "She wrote a piece about me. It wasn't exactly flattering, to say the least," Will said, smiling out of the corner of his mouth, finally beginning to relax, but looking away from Sherlock again. Sherlock knew the piece well; it was the first which had sparked his interest in Will Graham, while he'd been researching the Chesapeake Ripper.

"She reminds me of a housefly with an annoyingly long generation time that will just keep hanging around, until you swat her." Sherlock scoffed. John looked slightly appalled at what Sherlock was saying. Will hesitated.

"She seemed to like you, when she spoke to me. She says you were charming, or something. She made it seem like you had a real conversation…about me." Will blushed, scratching his head anxiously.

"She followed me while I worked, batting her eyelashes and asking me questions, and I smiled sweetly, palming her off with some useless information, so that she would tell me exactly what I needed to know. Then I told her that I dislike reporters more than anything else. Yes, we had a delightful chat." Sherlock spoke quickly. Will laughed. Even Hannibal smiled.

"At least we can agree on something, Mr Holmes."

* * *

An hour or so later, Hannibal closed the door behind Sherlock and John.

"That was the weirdest dinner I have ever had." Will said, wide eyed, looking at Hannibal and shaking his head, smiling on the edge of laughing.

"Mr Holmes didn't seem to understand the simple rule that as a guest it is impolite to insult others at the dinner table." Hannibal said, tiredly.

"Well, you sure showed him not to cross you."

"I do not doubt he will try again, regardless." Hannibal said, watching Will carefully. "I feel he may need further persuasion not to persist with this rudeness."

"Well now you see why I don't want to work with them." Will sighed, rubbing his sleepy eyes with one hand.

"You should go now, Will. We will talk about this tomorrow morning. You remember your appointment?" Hannibal asked. Will nodded.

"Ok. Goodnight Dr Lecter," Will said, moving towards the door.

"Goodnight, Will."

**AN: Once again, thank you for all the reviews so far, I love hearing what you think. Keep reviewing! **


	8. A Cut-Throat Business

**Chapter 8: A Cut-Throat Business**

"So there are _two _bodies?" Will asked, raising his eyebrows, as he walked alongside Jack and Sherlock towards the trees, leaves crunching beneath his boots.

"Yep," Jack replied, "Both killed in exactly same way."

"But one of them is the guy we were looking for? The one who the gun belonged to?" Will asked. Jack nodded, stepping over a branch.

"So it's still our little breadcrumb-trail killer." Sherlock said, quietly. "Maybe he was getting a little bored with killing one at a time. He's raising the stakes of the game." He suggested, peering ahead. He could already see a car; its front bumper was moulded around a tree where it had impacted and crumpled. Sherlock looked behind him, towards the trees they'd just come through, judging the distance and narrowing his eyes, thoughtfully, before looking back at the car. There were already FBI and police surrounding it.

"Maybe he just couldn't get the guy alone." Jack suggested, nonchalantly. They stopped when they reached the car. Blood had dried all down the right hand side of the car, and more could already be seen inside, some smeared on the windows, yet it didn't darken them enough to hide the two bodies inside, sitting in the seats, as though asleep.

"Will?" Sherlock asked, gesturing towards the car. Will looked at Sherlock, waiting.

"What?" He asked.

"I thought you'd like to go first." Sherlock said, smiling. Will frowned.

"You want me to go first? You don't want to go in and take a look and make any deductions before me?" Will asked, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to barge in," Sherlock said, joyfully, smiling, "Go on, I'd like you to look first." Sherlock said. Will could tell he was trying hard to be friendly at least.

"We don't have time to swoon over who is letting who go first. Somebody just look." Jack complained loudly, rolling his eyes.

"Ok. I'll go first." Will said. He looked at Jack to ask everyone to leave.

"Ok, everybody, out of the way now." Everyone who was already surrounding the car looked up to see Jack, after hearing his clear, authoritative voice. They sighed and moved away, reluctantly. "Let me know when we can all come back," Jack said to Will, quietly, passing him close by before walking away.

_His victim pulls over on the side of the dark, empty road. He is alone. He walks around his car, looking for the fault. Something's wrong with it. The man still looks confused. He doesn't realize what is just about to happen. The man thumps his fist against the roof of the car, letting out an anguished unintelligible shout, making a small dent in the car roof. Will walks out of the side road, almost laughing at his slow, stupid, uncontrolled victim. He approaches him from behind, quietly, waiting behind him for him to turn around, as he pulls out a knife. Like the other victims before, he wants to see his face when he makes the kill. He wants to see the emotions on his face, feel them through him. The man opens his mouth to ask for help, still too stupid to notice the knife in his hand. He doesn't want to hear the victim's voice. The knife aggressively slashes through the victim's throat with ease. Blood spills across the side of the car, and onto the road. It flows onto Will's hands, dripping onto his shoes. He holds his shaking, spluttering victim by the shoulders, roughly opening the passenger door of the car and placing the dying man inside. Blood continues to spill over the seat. _

_Will gets into the driver's seat, and steers the car into the side road. This wasn't part of his design. He steers the car between the widely spaced trees on the side of the road, skidding slightly. He looks to the man, slumped in the seat on his right, whose eyes are fluttering, starting to close. The car crashes into a tree. Will's head crashes into the steering wheel. The airbags activate, one pushing the victim's head back onto the seat and one pushing Will backwards. He scrambles out of the car, desperately, slamming the door behind him. He looks back, seeing the car, its front slightly crushed in by the tree._

Will opened his eyes, shivering fiercely, his heart beating quickly, as though he were getting ready to run away. His eyes flickered around him, wildly, desperate to get out, terrified that something...or someone was about to get him. He had the feeling of being watched, stalked, and preyed upon. He tried to shake off the feeling; that was how the killer had felt, not him. No-one was watching him. He wasn't prey. He was Will Graham, it was 11:47 in the morning, and he was a special investigator trying to solve a case. No-one was out to get him. He needed to speak to Jack. "Jack," Will said, but his voice came out as a hoarse rasp, "Jack!" He called, louder. Jack walked back to Will's side, from where he'd been waiting, far enough away for Will to forget he was there.

"Will, are you ok?" Jack asked, frowning with concern.

"This wasn't what he wanted to happen." Will said, breathlessly. "The killer meant just to kill him and leave him in the car, but something made him drive away. It's like he was running from something." Will said, confidently, looking at the car, which was still lodged in the tree. "He'd messed around with the car. Enough to make his victim pull over. But then for some reason, he still tried to drive the car himself. He wasn't thinking straight. And he's not stupid; he knew something about cars; he's probably a mechanic or something."

"That's the first guy?" Jack asked. Sherlock jogged towards them, from where he'd been talking to some of the FBI agents, his long, dark coat flapping behind him.

Will recounted what he'd seen.

"They weren't killed together?" Jack asked when Will was finished.

"No." Will replied. Meanwhile, Sherlock paced around the car, crouching down every few yards, turning and looking at the ground behind him occasionally. He threw open the driver's side door.

"Don't worry, I'm wearing gloves." He drawled, loudly and patronisingly, waving the fingers of a gloved hand in the air. Will watched Sherlock, silently. "Will, come over here." Will looked at Jack with a befuddled look, before walking over to Sherlock and bending down beside him to look inside the car. "What do you see here?" Sherlock asked him.

"I see two men. Both killed in the same way – throats slit. They're part of the game that the killer's playing."

"But what connects the two?" Sherlock asked. Will left a pause before answering.

"Nothing." Will replied.

"Exactly. So where does the second man fit in with the game?" Sherlock asked. Will said nothing in reply. "I was speaking to your friend, Beverley, over there. She's much, much smarter than most of the other buffoons you have working here,"

"Get to the point, Sherlock," Jack growled, threateningly.

"Look at the blood. There's more blood from the corpse of the man we've been looking for than the other one. This man wasn't dead, or even dying when the car crashed. He was killed, and moved to the car later."

"You mean the killer came back later with another body? Returned to the scene of the crime?" Jack asked, unconvinced.

"No." Sherlock said, "That can't be right. That's too stupid, even for them. The second person never left." Sherlock said, solidly.

"None of it make sense." Will said. "There's something we're missing here. Maybe we need to wait for the post-mortem. See when they both died. Someone…there's a motive somewhere…" Will muttered, moving round the car. "Wait…" he said.

"The man in the driver's seat is the murderer!" Sherlock exclaimed, leaping up. Will nodded, hurriedly, standing up.

"That's where he fits in the game. He made the game. And now he's ended it." Will said. He looked at Sherlock, the realization dawning on him. A proud smile crept across Sherlock's face.

"You think he killed the man he'd been planning on killing, and then took his own life?" Jack asked, looking concerned and disbelieving.

"Maybe it all became too much for him. You said he didn't feel any guilt before. Maybe this time it hit him all at once. There was more blood this time. That could have contributed to his reaction. Or he realized we were on our way to catching him." Will shook his head.

"He didn't kill himself." Will said.

"You said he panicked – maybe he realized what he'd done. He tried to crash the car, end it all. When it didn't work, he slit his own throat." Sherlock said. Will continued shaking his head.

"We need forensic analysis, a post-mortem, and to find out who this man is." Will decided. "He didn't kill himself. He wouldn't kill himself in the same way as his victim. He thought too much of himself for that." Will said, shaking his head. "He can't have done." Something was bothering Will about this whole situation. He just couldn't think exactly what, and Sherlock didn't seem to see it at all. "Someone killed him that way for a reason."


	9. At The Doctor's Office

**Chapter 9: At The Doctor's Office **

"Come in, Dr Watson," Hannibal said, gesturing John inside the door of his office. John crinkled his nose slightly.

"Call me John," he insisted, standing up from the chair in Hannibal's waiting room. "Is everything you do this formal?" John asked, curiously, admiring Hannibal's dark purple suit. Hannibal chuckled.

"I am more comfortable with formality than informality," Hannibal replied, closing the door behind John. "Please, sit."

John couldn't stop his eyes from taking in every detail of the room. He wasn't the type to appreciate interior decorating, but he'd never seen an office this well designed; even for a high-end psychiatrist, it was surprising. Sherlock had insisted he take a really good look around the place, although Sherlock had then decided that John's memory wouldn't be good enough to remember it all anyway. It was so organised. There were so many books, and papers, but all in neat piles, never strewn carelessly across a table. He marvelled at the higher tier of the room, up a ladder, supported by elegant column arches, housing shelves upon shelves of hardback books. It was so grand, right down to the chaise longue and the rugs on the floor, framed pictures evenly spaced from each other on the red-wine walls, and long windows hidden by long curtains and blinds.

"Do you have many patients today?" John asked, sitting down on a very low seat.

"Just the usual." Hannibal replied, dismissively.

"No appointment with Will today…?" John asked tentatively, moving around on the seat to get comfortable.

"He had his appointment this morning, before he was called away."

"They found the body, didn't they?" John asked, still fidgeting on the seat, "Of the man we were looking for." Hannibal nodded, as he sat down, carefully avoiding crumpling his suit.

"I take it you don't see any patients yourself, John?" Hannibal asked, seeming disinterested with the development of the case.

"No." John shook his head, "It's all solving cases with Sherlock now."

"Is that why you've come to Virginia?" Hannibal asked, "For new cases?" Hannibal smiled.

"Sherlock was… bored of London," John nodded, "And he heard about the Chesapeake Ripper case and – " John cut himself off abruptly, realizing he'd been about to mention Will Graham. "And he decided a change of scene would be interesting."

"And how long do you expect this change of scene to last?" Hannibal asked John, crossing one leg over the other.

"However long it takes," John replied, firmly, "Until we've finished the case we're working on and then find the ripper."

"Even though Jack has been on the Chesapeake Ripper case for years, you think you will solve it?" Hannibal asked, both surprised and amused by John's arrogance; perhaps he'd caught it from Sherlock.

"You didn't have Sherlock before." John said, confidently.

"You have complete faith in Sherlock." Hannibal said, "You've not known each other long, yet you've had complete faith in him from when you first met."

John blushed slightly.

"He's the smartest person I've ever met. Don't tell him I said that. He's a pain, but I trust him."

"Does he know what he's getting into with the ripper? I'm  
sure you heard about the unfortunate incident with Miriam Lass?" Hannibal asked, watching John closely for a reaction. John looked down at his hands, clasped together in front of him.

"Yeah…we read about that. It's really terrible." John replied, toning his smile down to a more serious, concerned face, lines appearing on his brow.

"Investigating the ripper is a dangerous game." Hannibal commented.

"We've played a lot of dangerous games. Danger's nothing new to us anymore. Sherlock likes it, in fact." John said, dismissively. Hannibal struggled to conceal his annoyance.

"You both thrive off the danger?" Hannibal said, "That's what attracted you here." John frowned again at that.

"Oh, I'm not an adrenaline junkie or anything." He laughed, nervously.

"But the danger excites you. And you trust Sherlock to save you from any real danger. He hasn't let you down yet."

"And he's not going to let me down." John added, quickly.

"Well, if danger's what you want, you won't be disappointed by the ripper case," Hannibal said, with a slight smile.

The phone rang.

"Excuse me, one moment, John," Hannibal said, with an apologetic smile. "It is probably Jack. He wouldn't call during appointment times unless it is urgent." Hannibal walked over to the phone by his desk, at a leisurely pace. While he was gone, John looked around the room a bit more, wondering what Sherlock would make of it. He really couldn't see anything unusual, other than the tidiness of it. Did that count as unusual, or was that just a symptom of OCD or an ordered and organised mind? If he really wanted to be Sherlock, he'd be looking at the books. He'd heard from Sherlock that a lot can be told about a man from looking at his library. However, Sherlock had no inhibitions when it came to being polite, a trait which John did not share. Snooping through a stranger's books would surely count as rude.

"It would appear we are needed. Sherlock is eager for your help." Hannibal said, hanging up the phone.


	10. Fear Makes You Rude, Hannibal

**Chapter 10: Fear Makes You Rude, Hannibal**

John and Hannibal arrived at the morgue, surrounded by the white walls, oddly pure for a place which housed murder victims. Will stood in the corner of the room, looking at the covered body from a distance, while Jack and Beverley stood by the corpse's head. Will only looked up for a second to acknowledge the doctors' arrival. Sherlock was sitting down by a computer, near Will, his eyes moving from side-to-side, hurriedly, his face illuminated by the blue glow of the screen.

"Hi, so, uh, what happened?" John spoke first. Hannibal looked to the solitary figure of Will in an attempt to make eye contact, before greeting Jack with a curt nod, which Jack returned with a slower nod of his own. Will bulked slightly at seeing Hannibal and John arrive together, the two doctors, one tall and calm and overdressed, and the other short and scatter-brained and underdressed. Did John have an appointment with Hannibal? Will wondered, or had they been together socially? He felt uneasy about the idea of them sitting together, drinking coffee and exchanging stories of their time as medical doctors.

"We have two nearly identical killings," Beverly was explaining to John and Hannibal, "Both found in the same car, but the time of death of the second one could have been up to an hour or two after the first." Beverly pulled back the white sheet from the first victim's face and neck, revealing a pale face, and a severed neck. "The first was the man we'd linked the last victim to – the one the gun was licensed to; his name's Stan Hawes, and the car we found them in was his. The other we've identified as Kent Answorth, a mechanic who lived locally. They weren't killed together. From the way the blood and prints look, Answorth killed Hawes."

"So…so then this guy, Stan Hawes, he's dead. But how did Kent Answorth die? And does that make Kent the killer we've been looking for?" John asked, then after a second, quickly said, "I'm sorry, I don't think we've been introduced. What's your name?" John asked, walking closer, extending his hand to Beverly across the corpse, smiling sheepishly, with eyes glowing like a small child making a new friend.

"Beverly. Beverly Katz." She replied, smiling broadly. "I can't really shake your hand though." She held up a gloved hand. "Contamination."

"John Watson," John said, still smiling, retracting his hand and holding her gaze for a moment.

Sherlock noticeably rolled his eyes.

"John," He warned, impatiently.

"I'm just being friendly, Sherlock! You should try it once in a while." John said, slowly, holding up his hands defensively.

"Somebody please just explain what happened here." Jack sighed impatiently, "I'm supposed to be in a room full of geniuses and all I'm getting are introductions!" Jack exclaimed, loudly. Sherlock looked up from the computer screen.

"Well I wouldn't say _full_ of geniuses…." Sherlock drawled. John squeezed his eyes tightly shut for a second, tipping his head back in frustration and embarrassment.

"_Sherlock_…" he groaned quietly.

"But they're certainly closer than Scotland Yard." Sherlock added. John had now opened his eyes, and was shaking his head. Sherlock turned around to glance at Will, who was now staring at the ground. "I do admire Will's crime-solving abilities though." Will glanced up just long enough to catch Sherlock looking at him with what did in fact look like approval and maybe even admiration. "Maybe not quite as much as Doctor Lecter treasures them…"

"What do you - " Will began quietly, frowning behind his glasses, but Hannibal interrupted him. Will was taken aback by Hannibal's sudden disregard for manners, and the speed of his response. Without Will noticing, Hannibal had moved closer to Will, facing Sherlock.

"Most people acknowledge their friends' gifts and talents, Mr Holmes. Perhaps this is a concept you are unfamiliar with. Perhaps if you stopped feeding your ego and paid more attention, you would be able to care for your friends before they are in mortal danger." Hannibal replied, bluntly, keeping his face straight and his hands behind his back, until he let a slight smirk escape his lips. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Hannibal. Sherlock brought something out in Hannibal that Will had never seen before: rudeness, and an almost predatory offensiveness.

"Careful, Doctor, your loose tongue will get you into trouble one of these days." Sherlock said, in a soft voice, smiling, not breaking eye contact. "That almost sounded like a threat." John continued staring at the floor ahead of him, counting to ten in his head, hoping that Sherlock would stop before he took it too far.

"I was simply referring to your past. It is common knowledge that you have saved John many times, but it is your own actions and your arrogance that put him in this danger; I have not told you anything you did not already believe to be true. I am simply making a professional observation." Hannibal watched Sherlock, as recognition flashed across his eyes. Being a psychiatrist certainly had its advantages…using a person's own fears against them was perhaps a cheap move, but it worked nonetheless, especially on a mind as emotionally juvenile as Sherlock Holmes'. John looked up at Sherlock with concern, which then turned into annoyance as his eyes moved to Hannibal.

"Hold on a minute - " John began, loudly, talking to Hannibal, at the same time as Sherlock began,

"You're very good at changing the subject-"

"This is not a high school!" Jack suddenly shouted, drowning out both of their voices. "Let's solve the damn crime or you can leave!" Jack snapped, glaring at Sherlock.

"Will and I have been talking." Sherlock said; his face changed in a second, like a man well-practised in bouncing back. His features lightened, creases on his forehead disappeared and his eyes widened as he spun his chair to face Jack, Beverly, Hannibal and John, diving into his deductions. "There were prints from the mechanic, Kent Answorth's boots, leading away from the car. But there were no prints coming back. So after he killed Hawes, Answorth left. He left alive." Sherlock looked back over his shoulder to Will, who swallowed nervously before speaking.

"Unless whoever killed him forced his dead body to walk away from the car, Kent Answorth was in the car when it crashed into the tree." Will added, "But he didn't die in the crash; he walked away. Someone else killed him and brought him _back._" Will said. He pushed himself off the wall to stand up straight, unaided. Jack nodded.

"Thank you! Now we are getting somewhere. Unless our late friend here just happened to enjoy driving around with a dead guy in the passenger seat, he's the killer." Jack said. "We know that for sure."

"And then the killer walked away, was killed, and then carried back? It definitely wasn't suicide?" John asked, sternly. He kept glancing back to Sherlock, who seemed to have completely recovered from his disagreement with Hannibal just moments ago. Hannibal too seemed entirely composed again, as he stood, beside Will, listening politely.

"No," Will shook his head, "He couldn't have got himself back into the car. Unless he climbed through the trees, there's no way he could have moved back towards the car by himself. And the blood patterns suggest he didn't die in the car seat. There wasn't enough blood. There's no way he killed himself. He was murdered."

"So there's another killer. Great. One's dead, but we gain another." Jack rolled his eyes. "How many homicidal maniacs can one state have?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, watching Jack.

"So what are we looking for, some kind of vigilante? Sees the murder, takes the law into his own hands?" Beverly asked, pulling the white sheet back over the severed neck and pale, lifeless face of the corpse. Hannibal remained silent, observing.

"They killed the murderer in the same way as he'd just killed his victim. He wanted to disgrace him – to make him look like the victims he was slaughtering. Drag him down to their level." Will said, stepping even further away from the wall, and at the same time further from Hannibal, so he was now standing alongside Sherlock, who remained seated.

"Precisely." Sherlock said, "I don't know about you, but that reminds me a little of another murderer we know. Treating the victims like pigs? Thinking of himself as something greater?" He made eye contact with Hannibal. "What kind of man does that?" Sherlock asked, "Any ideas, Doctor Lecter, you've been rather quiet. You're a psychiatrist, what kind of psychological profile would you give a man like that?" Sherlock smiled, leaning back in his chair.

"Many murderers distance themselves from their own species. It allows them to kill; they see their prey as nothing more than that. Perhaps an intelligent sociopath. A character you are familiar with, Mr Holmes." Hannibal replied.

"I like your diagnosis, Doctor." Sherlock muttered.

"Of course, that was not an accusation. Simply an observation of character. Your disposition may aid you in finding the killer." Hannibal said, not taking his eyes off Sherlock.

"If the killer were indeed a sociopath, I'm sure it would." Sherlock said, slowly.

Jack rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"We need more leads. We need prints on both bodies; we need to know the differences between the deaths; I want boot prints – and to know where the prints ended, where they lead to – and I want soil samples, and an appeal for witnesses. We need to stamp this out before it gets any further. I'm not having any more killers slip through our fingers."

"I'll go to the lab. Look at soil samples. John?" Sherlock snapped, leaping out of his chair. John moved around the corpse to join him.

"I'll show you both where they are." Beverly volunteered. Jack glared at Sherlock's back as he walked away. What had he been thinking when he'd invited that man into his team?

* * *

Beverly led the duo to the lab.

"I've heard a lot about you both," She said, as she walked slightly ahead of the two men. "I read your blog." She glanced back at John.

"Really?" John asked, sounding surprised. He picked up the pace of his walk, doing a strange skipping motion to close the gap between them and walk alongside her.

"Oh yeah, it's amazing how you both solve the cases – and the way you write about them. I love the names, what was it, 'The Blind Banker'? That was one of my favourites."

"That was an interesting one." John agreed.

"So we've got soil samples, blood samples, clothing samples, all here." Beverly said, "So are you looking for chemicals from the boots, soil from other places, that sort of thing?" She hadn't stopped grinning the whole time she'd been with them; she had an unnaturally cheery disposition for someone who worked in a place like this. Sherlock found himself thinking that Molly could do with taking a leaf out of her book.

"She's smart. I like her." Sherlock said, sitting down, gathering test tubes around him. Pieces of the puzzle were beginning to fall into place.

* * *

**AN: ****Sorry this update took a little longer than usual, I've been on holiday so I didn't have any internet access, and I've also had to spend a little longer thinking about where this is going, but I've got it planned out now so I'll be able to update more regularly again.**

**Please continue reviewing, and thank you so much for all the reviews so far. They really help motivate me to continue writing. I hope you're enjoying this!**


	11. Alone

**AN: Just a quick note to say I've added a cover image to the story; it's a picture by ****Barrocco (you can find her art on tumblr by searching "Barrocco" if you want to see more art), and as always thank you for the reviews!**

**Chapter 11: Alone **

"So have you read many of my blogs?" John asked Beverly, as he watched Sherlock making himself at home, dragging test tubes and a tray of lab equipment towards him.

"Oh yeah, they're brilliant. I mean, there's some interesting stuff going on here, but some of your cases are just ridiculous!" Beverly exclaimed, cheerily.

"Yeah…Sherlock likes choosing the more interesting ones; he gets bored easily. Otherwise we'd be solving mysteries about missing cats for the whole of London." John joked.

"You must be very in demand," Beverly commented. John smiled, modestly.

"So what's it like being in the FBI? I'd never actually been around any FBI agents before; it's something you used to see in films all the time. Is it like in films?" John asked quickly. Behind John's back, Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"It's pretty cool…" Beverly replied, tentatively. Sherlock had absorbed himself in thumbing through drawers of samples and files already, without even a glance back at Beverly. "Sherlock, do you want a hand with anything?" She asked.

"No," Sherlock replied slowly, not even looking as he carried a microscope over to a sterile, grey lab bench and began adjusting the lens. "Ten minutes and I'll be finished." Beverly looked to John, eyebrows raised, unsure of what to do.

"Do you want to…get a coffee or something while we wait for him?" John asked, slowly.

"We should really be helping…murders to solve and all that…" she replied, smiling at John.

"Nahh, we can take ten minutes out. He doesn't need us, do you Sherlock?"

"Hopefully I'll be able to cope for a few minutes." Sherlock sighed, smiling.

Sherlock looked up from the data sheets he'd printed off. Beverly and John still hadn't returned. Sherlock glanced at his watch. They'd definitely been gone for longer than ten minutes. Sherlock suddenly became aware of the feeling he was being watched, and turned around. Will Graham was standing in the doorway, a serious expression on his face, looking down at his shoes; he'd taken off his dark green jacket and was now wearing yet another plaid shirt. He looked up when Sherlock turned around.

"Hello, Will," Sherlock said, turning back to the sheets. "I was hoping the killer might have left traces of soil – or anything – from his boots or shoes. But there's nothing. He's completely immaculate. If it wasn't for what we saw earlier, I'd be questioning the killer's existence…" Sherlock mused, thoughtfully. Will nodded solemnly, not moving away from his space in the doorway.

"You think it's the copycat, don't you?" Sherlock asked, nonchalantly, reshuffling the mass spectra sheets he was using in front of him.

"It's too much of a coincidence," Will said, grimacing, "It's just too similar. It just _feels _the same."

"I get the impression a feeling might not be quite enough for Jack to believe you. And the copycat was in Minesotta, this was in Boston. Not to mention, the copycat's supposed to be Nicholas Boyle. You'd think he'd be keeping a low profile around now, ven in his state of being missing." Sherlock said, slowly. He was testing Will. Sherlock already knew that the copycat killer wasn't a profile which fit a silly little boy like Nicholas Boyle.

"Nicholas Boyle's not the copycat. And even murderers can travel. Nicholas Boyle was violent, but he didn't kill his sister."

"Do you know what I think, Will?" Sherlock asked, a smile spreading, "I think Nicholas Boyle knew something." Will shook his head violently. "Do you think Nicholas Boyle is alive, Will?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

"I – I hadn't thought… I don't know." Will said.

"Well I don't. And I want to know who killed him."

"You think he's been murdered?" Will asked, stepping away from the wall, blinking quickly, astounded.

"Hmm…I think we have a lot of false leads. We've got Nicholas Boyle, who's definitely not the copycat, and we've got Abel Giddeon, who's not the Chesapeake Ripper." Sherlock said, slowly, still smiling. "Do you ever feel like you're being distracted, Will?" Sherlock asked, "Because I do." He spun around 360 degrees on his seat.

"What do you mean?" Will asked, brow furrowed.

"I mean that there are two killers out there, and the FBI are too busy focusing on the falsities they've been fed to find the real killer." Sherlock said, boldly. Will looked away, focusing on the empty far corner of the room.

"Jack's spent years," Will emphasised, "Trying to find the ripper. He's already lost Miriam, what more –"

"Exactly!" Sherlock shouted, "Don't you see?" He said excitedly, leaping up. "Miriam Laas found something! The ripper can be found! If she could find him, so can you. If anyone could find him, Will, you and I…we could find him. We would be a _fine _choice."

"But Jack doesn't want us to risk anything else. There are other cases – " Will stammered, agitatedly.

"Distractions, Will. Don't let them distract you; don't let them take your mind. I am of the impression that if you find the ripper, these distractions will disappear. We are _so _close." Sherlock hissed. Sherlock was close to Will, towering above him. Will leaned away until his back was nearly against the wall again. Will looked into Sherlock's eyes and saw something out of place: concern, trying to hide itself beneath the obvious frustration.

"What are you so worried about?" Will asked, so quietly it was nearly a hoarse whisper, as his eyes darted around Sherlock's face. Sherlock turned away immediately, walking quickly back to his seat, pulling out the stool violently before sitting back down.

"Worried? I'm not worried." Sherlock snapped, hurriedly. Will felt his body relax now that his personal space was his own again.

"No. You're worried. I'm not stupid, Sherlock, you know that. You're worried…about me." Will said, slowly, but certainly. Will's brow was furrowed as far as it would go without his eyes closing, as he moved away from the wall again, towards Sherlock. "Do you still think I'm unstable, what - ?" Will began, looking anywhere but at Sherlock, speaking through a jaw which felt like it was locked closed.

"I was wrong." Sherlock muttered, sadly. His features looked remarkably softer than they had been in their previous encounters. He looked so…human…almost friendly, but sad at the same time. "I need to leave." Sherlock snapped again, "I need to go to my mind palace, and I need to be alone. Where is John?" Sherlock grabbed his coat, throwing it on in a swift motion.

"Sherlock, what is it? Tell me. So you're not worried I'm unstable then? What are you so worried about?" Will demanded, loudly. "You said we're close and that we can find the murderer together! Then let's find him now. Clearly you know something that I don't -" But Sherlock refused to look at Will, standing back up and pushing the stool under the bench, leaving the papers, photographs and various samples and microscopes scattered across the table. Will gave up, shaking his head, disbelievingly. Sherlock drew his coat tighter around him and stormed quickly from the room.

_Alone?_ Will found himself wondering angrily; the detective didn't even realise what he was saying. Alone wasn't when you went to find your best friend to drink tea and solve a crime together. Alone was what Will had when Sherlock walked out of that room without any explanation.


	12. Think

**Chapter 12: Think **

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" John demanded, hurriedly. Sherlock stormed through the door of the rented room. Calmly, John closed the door behind them, following Sherlock into the room, watching him the whole time. The room was small, with two twin beds, complete with cheap and bobbly brown bed covers, pushed close together, and separated by a bedside table, the small entirety of which was covered by a paperback Sherlock had been reading the night before.

"We need this case solved. We need to solve this now." Sherlock snapped, crossing the room, to the long window and staring outside at the dreary grey view of the opposite building's wall.

"Wasn't that what you were doing? Why did we have to leave? Couldn't you and Will - ?" John began, sounding concerned, staring at Sherlock's back.

"I needed to be able to think, John. I couldn't think with those people there. I need time, time without being disturbed." Sherlock spoke quickly, as though he were in a hurry. John wondered if he should be flattered or concerned that Sherlock didn't find his presence disturbing.

"Ok, then, what do we need to do?" John asked, eagerly, hanging up his coat on the back of the door.

"Will Graham. He needs our help." Sherlock said.

"I know that, we're making good progress with the case. Sherlock, are you alright?"

"No, John, we need to help him. These cases, they're all connected, the murders he's looked at, the copycat, the Chesapeake Ripper, the deaths we were looking at today."

"What do you mean, help him? Do you mean he's unwell? Surely that's for his psychiatrist to help him with, Sherlock; we solve murders, not counsel the unstable."

"John, you're not understanding me!" Sherlock exclaimed. He sounded scared. By now he had turned around, and was pacing across the short length of the room.

"Sherlock, maybe you need to calm down," John said, "Listen, I'll make tea." John walked over to the cheap plastic kettle, which they'd had to ask for specifically and picked it up to carry it into the bathroom and fill it with water.

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, stopping and standing still, looking at John, imploringly, desperately. He took John by the shoulders aggressively, his fingernails digging in. John put down the kettle, looking Sherlock in the eye, his face creased with concern.

"What is it, Sherlock?" He asked quietly. He put one of his hands over Sherlock's to try and pry it from his shoulder. "I thought we were looking at Will because he was suspicious. Now suddenly you've changed your mind? I didn't think you trusted him? What's changed? Why are you being like this?" John sighed. Sherlock took his hands from John's shoulders, allowing John to turn away and take the kettle to the bathroom. When he returned, he replaced it on its base and flicked the switch. Sherlock gritted his jaw. Of course Will wasn't suspicious anymore, not now that they'd met and worked together. "Considering you want to help him, you've acted like you outright dislike Will!" John continued, turning back to face Sherlock, looking up at him, frowning. Sherlock shook his head, sitting down on John's bed, rather than his own. Of course John wouldn't understand. It was only now that Sherlock had realized how alike himself and Will were, and that Will truly had a gift, not murderous intent. Sherlock knew more than most that talent like that could manifest itself as a curse: people didn't take kindly to those who saw the world differently to their own restricted pin-hole view of it all. The sound of the kettle letting out steam grew louder.

"Will is not the criminal, John. But from the outside he appears like one. That's why that woman, the one with the man's name," Sherlock waved his hand around, trying to come up with the name, "Freddie Lounds – she didn't understand; she tried to expose him as unstable, as unwell, as a _freak_." Sherlock said, angrily.

"So we need to save him from a tabloid blogger…?" John asked, uncertainly.

"No, John!" The kettle clicked. John turned away to fill two mugs.

"Then explain to me, Sherlock, how do you expect me to help you when you don't even tell me what to help you with?" John demanded, aggressively stirring the tea.

"I can't explain it." Sherlock muttered. "I need more time. The evidence it's all there, I'm sure of it. It's just…well scattered." He grimaced. John handed Sherlock a cup of tea. "I would have preferred a coffee." He said, bitterly. John laughed.

"You are unbelievable. You're already excitable enough; no more caffeine." He said, sternly, but smiling, sitting down next to Sherlock. "Ok, Sherlock, let's go through what we know, if you want. Maybe we're missing something."

"No," Sherlock said, slowly, "No, talking about it won't help. There's too much information; that's why Will doesn't know what's happening. His mind is clouded by the amount of data; it's all shouting in his head at once. Too many people with too many different views. I need to be objective. I need to eliminate the lies; talking will just increase the volume of false details."

"Ok." John said, simply. Sherlock hesitated.

"But thank you." Sherlock mumbled. John smirked.

"Ha! I mean, you're welcome. I shouldn't laugh. I'll be here though. If you want a fresh perspective. Someone to run things by. Or anything. Do you want anything to eat? Have you eaten yet today?"

"I'm very busy, John…" Sherlock said, defensively, rolling his eyes.

"Sherlock!" John complained, "Fine, I'll go and find you something, ok. You just stay here. You need to eat. What would you do without me?" John asked, grinning.

* * *

When John returned, carrying a brown paper bag, Sherlock was lying on his back on John's bed, on top of the covers, eyes closed and hands interlocked on top of his chest, still dressed in his shirt, not quite buttoned to the top as it had been earlier, slightly untucked from his trousers. John sighed. No wonder. Even Sherlock couldn't keep up that level of activity all day. John ate a sandwich, leaving another in the fridge for Sherlock, read a little of Sherlock's book for about half an hour, then set an alarm for the morning on his phone.

"Sherlock," he whispered, but Sherlock didn't respond. He was about to try again, slightly louder, but he decided Sherlock looked too peaceful. John sighed.

"Typical." He muttered. When it became dark, John pulled the curtains shut and turned off the lights, before pulling back the covers on Sherlock's bed, and climbing in. He looked over at Sherlock, still in John's bed, and shook his head, smiling.


	13. Those In Glass Palaces

**Chapter 13: Those in Glass Palaces**

Sherlock was in his mind palace, surrounding himself with the evidence, in the form of pictures and words. He collected the previous crimes around him, disregarding some of them as uninteresting, or simple. He was left with Garrett Jacob Hobbs, the copycat killer, Nicholas Boyle, Will Graham. He brushed Will Graham aside; he didn't kill in cold blood. Will fit into a category much more complex than the simple category of murderer.

"It was like a gift" was how Will had described the first copycat killing. It was like someone had wanted him to see. A killer with a vendetta against Garrett Jacob Hobbs maybe? No, that wasn't right. Jack Crawford wanted Will for the job; he wanted Will to look; he kept pushing him; but would he kill to get Will's attention, to give Will a confidence boost and persuade him to start looking again? No. But Will was definitely involved. The copycat wanted to help Will with the first case. By now Sherlock had decided Will was right; the copycat killer had struck again this morning. Nicholas Boyle wasn't the copycat either. In fact, Sherlock wouldn't be surprised if he was found dead soon – the real copycat wouldn't want any loose ends.

Then there was Miriam Lass. Her hand was so carefully placed, so well-preserved, in order to maintain a reputation and discredit Abel Gideon. There was only one murderer in this mess.

Will would know the murderer. There was no evidence against them, and they wouldn't find any, not until the killer slipped up. The kills were artistic. The Ripper kept trophies, organs, livers, hearts, and lungs. Today, they'd left no sign of their existence at the crime scene, only the absence of another explanation. They had almost surgical precision…

Surgical. Miriam Lass and Jack Crawford had imagined the Chesapeake Ripper to be a doctor, keeping surgical trophies.

But a killer so artistically inclined, doctor or not, would surely prefer to do something a little more creative with his spoils, would want to parade them, not hide them in jars, out of sight in a basement…

A doctor focused on Will Graham, giving him the gift of his first solved case upon his return, a gesture of friendship, leading to his first kill…

"John!" Sherlock exclaimed, opening his eyes abruptly, and sitting up straight. "I've got it!" He looked urgently around the room. No sign of John. Sherlock looked to the bed on his right. The bed, which was in fact Sherlock's own was unmade. John had slept there. Sherlock glanced to the curtains, through which a thin beam of light was streaming through. It was morning. He'd lost track of time. Sherlock's book was orientated differently to before – John had been reading it. John's coat was gone from the hook behind the door. One of the room's key cards was gone from the dressing table. John had left intentionally. Sherlock rushed from the room, taking his own key card in a swift motion from the bedside table, still wearing the same clothes from last night.

He hurried to the lobby, asking the first receptionist he saw if they'd seen John,

"Short, fair, possibly slightly agitated, English, wearing a green coat?" The woman looked at him blankly. "He came here with me. You saw us arrive," Sherlock quickly said, trying desperately and breathlessly to remind her, "He told me off for talking about your marriage!" The woman's face fell. "Oh, you two." She groaned. "You mean your partner?" She asked, rolling her eyes, "He left about an hour ago."

"Was he alone?" Sherlock asked. The woman nodded.

"Did he seem on edge at all to you?" Sherlock pressed. The woman shook her head. Sherlock ran back up the stairs. Where had John gone? He picked up the hotel telephone, typing in John's number, which he'd memorised. A buzzing sound came from the bedside table.

"Stupid, stupid man," Sherlock hissed, dropping the phone back onto its receiver. John must have said where he was going. Did he have any plans for the morning? Sherlock picked up John's phone, unlocking it with a quick and predictable 6 digits and scanned it for a sign. He'd set an alarm for about two hours ago. No label. Phone history. Last incoming call: Dr Hannibal Lecter.

Sherlock froze.

"Stupid, stupid!" He shouted, slapping himself twice on the forehead. He should have figured it out sooner. All the clues had been there from the start.

Dr Lecter's office was too far away, even if Sherlock paid the driver to speed; he wasn't prepared to allow that kind of time. Dr Lecter would know he was onto him by now. Why else would he have phoned John? He used John's phone to call the doctor.

"Come on, come on," Sherlock whined, as the phone rang.

"Mr Holmes," Hannibal answered the phone, seconds before it could ring out.

"Where's John?" Sherlock asked, hurriedly, as he moved around the hotel room, violently pulling out files he'd collected (and stolen) from the FBI facility in Quantico and scattering them across his bed.

"John?" Hannibal asked, quietly.

"Cut it, Lecter, I know he's with you. And I know what you are." Sherlock hissed, angrily. The other end of the phone was silent for a minute, followed by the sound of footsteps. Sherlock counted the number of footsteps; the same number that would take him from the edge of Hannibal's office to the waiting room.

"Then what am I, Mr Holmes?" Hannibal asked. He sounded amused.

"You know exactly what you are. You are a murderer, a liar, and a cannibal." Sherlock snapped. Hannibal gave a short chuckle.

"You must be thinking of somebody else, Mr Holmes."

"Undoubtedly, you are not the only one of your kind, but I am thinking of you. You've been manipulating Will from the moment you met him. The killings of the Chesapeake Ripper echo those of an artistic, yet surgically immaculate personality. One which fits yourself perfectly, with your history as a medical doctor, and now under the cover of a psychiatrist. Cooking appeared to be your creative outlet, and indeed it was: just not in the way anyone would expect. I've seen your house; it's as clean as the crime scenes. Even the absence of clues is itself a clue." Sherlock spoke quickly. "Now let me speak to John."

"I am impressed. But how did you know for sure? Was it when I cooked you dinner?" Hannibal asked, sounding amused. Sherlock's jaw muscles tensed and he gripped the phone tighter. He was glad Hannibal couldn't see the distress on his face.

"It was how possessive you are over Will which drew my attention," Sherlock said, feigning an air of calm. "You clearly want him for something, which led me to question your motives, which revealed your criminal intent. It was only a matter of a few jumps to see who you were underneath that suit." Sherlock said quickly.

"You don't have enough for an arrest." Hannibal said, dismissively, "You will find no evidence. You cannot imprison a man for being clean, Mr Holmes. You have no witnesses. There is nothing to tie me to any of the crimes you accuse me of."

"And if we raid your refrigerator?" Sherlock asked, quickly.

"Surely you don't think it is above me to dispose of a few hearts, Sherlock?" Hannibal laughed.

"Maybe the FBI are already on their way." Sherlock said, sulkily.

"They aren't. Jack Crawford would think you insane. Be my guest, Mr Holmes, but you'll have no luck." Hannibal said, then after a pause, "It would be a shame for things to turn the other way, and for you to never see John again."

"Where is John?" Sherlock asked again.

"He's here."

"I need to speak to John." Sherlock hissed, "Now."

"You're fighting a losing battle, Sherlock, you know it. Your argument is smart, but feeble; you have nothing to show, but some intuition, and nobody and nothing to back you up. Stop clutching at straws, Mr Holmes. You must accept, you are smart, but you are not smart enough to beat me."

Sherlock laughed.

"That sounds like a challenge."

"If John weren't in danger, you would enjoy the challenge, wouldn't you, Sherlock? Perhaps we could play a game? But with him in his current position, maybe it is best it is postponed. Your only option is to save your friend and get out. You cannot defeat me." Hannibal said, calmly.

Sherlock kicked the bedside table. He winced.

"If you hurt John- !" He exclaimed loudly, unable to finish the sentence.

"The only option is to remove yourself and John from danger. There is a flight to London in three hours. Get on the flight, return to London. Look after Mrs Hudson, and solve the murder that was committed yesterday in Bloomsbury."

"So you can continue killing innocent people here?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Better to return and to continue with your life than to stay here, trying to avenge your best friend's death, and ending it with nothing to show." Hannibal replied, softly.

"You wouldn't kill John. Not now that you've told me you'll do it." Sherlock spat.

"Your word against mine, Mr Holmes. The killer could be anyone – you and John have caused quite a stir. A psychopath with a penchant for disembodying their victims, and rearranging their limbs, perhaps." Hannibal said, casually. Sherlock gritted his teeth.

"Don't you dare even touch him, or I swear – "

"I've made you an offer, Mr Holmes. Take it or leave it." Sherlock was silent for at least a minute.

"What about Will?"

"Will is not yours to worry about." Hannibal was blunt. Sherlock gritted his teeth and sighed, exasperated.

"Tell John that Mycroft needs us to return." Sherlock muttered, hanging his head and staring at the rough pale blue carpet. "And that we need to go home." Sherlock bowed his head, kicking at the carpet, like an upset child who didn't get their way. "But this game is not over, Doctor."

On the contrary, Hannibal thought, he'd heard intelligence that Sherlock Holmes would be dead within the coming months. The game had very much ended, admittedly a little sooner than he'd have liked, but if Sherlock Holmes were as great as the tales told, Hannibal would be happy to partake in another round.

* * *

Sherlock opened his eyes for a second, as the seatbelt sign on the panel above his head flickered off.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" John asked, looking at him from the next seat, eyes wide with concern, "Are you – are you _worried _about Mycroft?" John asked, trying to suppress his grin. Sherlock's face remained straight, as he faced forwards, arms on the armrests on either side of him.

"Maybe." Sherlock lied, closing his eyes so he didn't have to make eye contact.

"I'm sure it's not as bad as it sounds. Probably only some kids having a laugh."

"Hmph." Sherlock made a grunting sound, "Maybe."

"He gets blackmailed all the time, doesn't he?" John asked, looking at Sherlock's closed eyes. "It'll be fine. You'll find them. You always do."

Sherlock gripped the arms of his seat, agitatedly. He wasn't going to give up this case easily. He needed time, time to gather evidence, time to gain an advantage. Lecter held all the cards for now, all the faith of the FBI. John's life was too much to risk. Nonetheless, he wasn't ready to let this case go just yet. But now that John was safe beside him, he could be patient. He had a feeling Dr Lecter would be in no rush to give up his habits too soon. He had too much resting on Will; Sherlock just hoped he would be able to stop him.


	14. Back On The Case

**AN: From here on in, this is post ****_The Reichenbach Fall_****, and (only shortly) post ****_Savoureux_****. **

**I'm going on a timescale in which the events in ****_Savoureux_**** occurred roughly a year and a half after the events in ****_The Reichenbach Fall _****(so pretty much using the air dates of the TV shows as the dates for the events).**

**Thank you so much for the lovely reviews. **

**Chapter 14: Back On The Case**

John was numbly browsing through the international news when he read the headline:

"FBI's Leading Special Investigator Faces Multiple Murder Charges". John felt his chest tighten. It felt like forever ago that he and Sherlock had been working on a case with Will Graham. He wondered if Sherlock had known all along. Maybe that's what Sherlock meant when he was saying how alike he and Will Graham were; maybe they were both hiding under some kind of disguise. They'd never returned to the case, and now they never would.

* * *

With a false passport provided by Irene Adler (she was in his debt, after all), his trademark dark curls cut short, and an unassuming ensemble of a grey bomber jacket, white t-shirt and jeans, Sherlock Holmes moved swiftly through passport control at Washington Dulles International Airport, alone. Tales of his exploits had faded out enough by now for him not to be immediately recognized by his face.

His first port of call was the FBI Academy, Quantico. Sherlock had been keeping an eye on Will since his "death". As soon as he'd heard about Will being taken into Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane, he'd booked the first flight to Virginia. Ideally, Sherlock would have gone straight to the hospital, but Sherlock knew he'd need help getting in. The "criminally insane" were not easy to see without inside help. Jack Crawford was out of the question; he was too traditional. Crawford would recognize Sherlock straight away, and when he did, he wouldn't help Sherlock keep up his disguise. He'd be taken straight into custody. He needed someone who wanted to help Will, at all costs, maybe even someone who wouldn't recognize Sherlock immediately. He'd found someone in one of Freddie Louds' blogs, Doctor Alana Bloom, a guest lecturer at the FBI Academy, was looking after Will's dogs. She must be close to Will to take on the number of dogs Sherlock had deduced that Will owned and it was more than likely that she had a romantic interest in Will. However, she was also an ex-student and colleague of Doctor Hannibal Lecter, and for that reason, he would have to be careful. Hannibal mustn't know of his arrival until Sherlock was ready.

* * *

Getting into the academy was easier than Sherlock had expected; in fact, it was worryingly easy. All it took was a soft, confused voice, a few technical words about the lecture Sherlock was _so eager _to attend, but had so _clumsily_ forgotten his ID to get into, and a quick peek at a list of attendees, and Sherlock was into the building. For the first time, he was almost glad the press were so attached to the photograph of him in that hideous deerstalker hat. No-one who hadn't met him in person gave him a second glance without it. He waited outside the lecture theatre, watching the doctor explaining psychic driving to a room full of students. When they filed out, he weaved through the opposing mass of lacklustre, fast-food and coffee driven student bodies, and made his way to the front of the theatre. Alana Bloom was stapling print-outs of slides and sliding them into a folder on the desk. She didn't look up as he approached.

"Doctor Alana Bloom?" Sherlock said. She looked up.

Her eyes were tired; the shadows under them were clear. She'd been paying less attention to herself since the photos he'd seen online were taken. She would probably be considered attractive by most; Sherlock found himself thinking that John would like her, partly judging by her looks, but mainly by the warm and personable, but intelligent and straight-forward way she'd interacted with her students. Then his mind wandered to asking himself if John had contacted Beverly Katz since they'd left Virginia. When he considered the current circumstances, he realized the answer was no. Sherlock dragged his mind back to Alana Bloom.

There were a few white dog hairs (presumably from Will's dogs) on the toes of her boots, and even some on the hem of her knee-length dress she wore. She'd taken to looking after the dogs as though they were her own, or maybe as though they were a representation of Will; to look after them was to look after him, hence the time Sherlock could see she spent kneeling down beside them every morning, petting them. She was wearing a cardigan, though it wasn't cold. She was covering up more than appeared natural to her; almost as though she were using her clothing as a comfort blanket, like a teenage girl wearing a hoodie around the house after a break-up. She was trying hard to disguise her inner turmoil: that was for sure, and she'd been doing a good job of it too. Anyone but Sherlock would have overlooked this, fooled by the professional front she was so talented at putting on. She'd seemed animated enough while lecturing, smiling, answering questions. Her work looked organized, her movements weren't lethargic and she was alert. But once everyone had turned away and left, she looked jaded.

"Yes?" Alana answered, straightening up and frowning. She'd become distrusting since what had happened with Will, probably for the better.

"I'm a friend of Will Graham's." Sherlock began, adopting a more naïve, friendly voice. He smiled, warmly. He saw her face drop. "I was hoping you'd be able to help me actually. I have something I'd like to speak to him about – "

"I'm sorry, I'm not the person you should be speaking to," Alana replied, coldly, quickly interrupting him. "You should speak to Jack Crawford about that, but they're strict about visitors, so I wouldn't have your hopes up too high." She said, dismissively, resuming her packing of files and pens into her briefcase.

"But you visit him, don't you?" Sherlock asked, feigning surprise and distress, "I really, really need to see him, Doctor Bloom…"

"Who did you say you are again?" Alana asked quickly, narrowing her eyes at him.

"I'm a friend of Will's – "

"I don't think so." Alana said bluntly. She aggressively stapled some sheets together. "If you were a friend of Will's, I'd know it. Will hasn't been to Britain for a long time, I don't see how he'd know you. You definitely don't work here. Now, you can either leave quietly and stop harassing me, go back to your magazine or blog, and make something up, or I can call security." Alana said, one hand on her hip.

"Oh, there's no need – "

"I'm not telling you anything, alright? Don't take me for a fool, you're not his friend."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and changed his tone.

"I'm not taking you for a fool. I'm here to help Will Graham." He said quickly.

"I've had enough people like you, coming in here, pretending to help. I don't know why you think I'm willing to accept just anyone to help him, tell his story, listen to his point of view, or analyse his mental state, whatever you're here for. I've got it sorted." Alana snapped, looking angrily at Sherlock. Sherlock exhaled, tiredly.

"No one can help Will Graham but me. No-one knows the things I know, apart from of course the person who has caused him to end up where he is now. If you want Will out of that jumpsuit, you need me to help you. I've worked with Will; I know he is innocent of all the crimes he has been accused of. Will Graham is not a murderer, and he needs my help. Now, to do that, I need to see him. And I know you want me to help him. So let me." Sherlock spoke quickly. He leaned towards Alana, hands shoulder width apart on the desk between them, lowering him to her height.

"First tell me who you are. And why you want to help." She asked, lips pursed, sceptically, arms folded.

"I'm a little offended you didn't recognize me, Doctor Bloom." Sherlock smirked. Alana looked at him closer, narrowing her eyes, suspiciously, then widening them.

"I sure hope you're not who I think you are, or I'm more mad than I thought." She muttered.

"You're not mad, Doctor Bloom. Consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes, at your service." Sherlock said, straightening up. He extended his hand, expecting her to take it.

"Deceased consulting detective, I think you mean," Alana said, ignoring his hand, which he quickly retracted. "How?" She asked.

"Ah. Well that was easier than I'd anticipated. I didn't think you'd believe me."

"I'm not the type to try and pretend you're not here and alive. And I can see you're telling the truth. But how are you alive?"

"That, is my secret." Sherlock said, "Strictly need to know. Now, if we're going to free Will Graham, I'll need to see him first."

"You want me to let you, a dead man, into a high security hospital for the criminally insane?" Alana asked, eyebrows raised. She grimaced a little as she spoke the word "insane".

"Yes." Sherlock replied. "And I need you to keep my identity a secret. If certain people find out I'm alive and I'm here, Will won't ever be able to leave that hospital. Do you understand me?" Sherlock asked, quickly.

"You can't just come in here and expect me to do whatever you want, just because you're_ The_ _Great Sherlock Holmes,_" Alana mocked, "Some of us have been trying from the start to help Will, now you just come out of nowhere and think you can do a better job?" She asked, disbelievingly shaking her head, "What makes you think you can help?"

"I think you know Will's innocent. You've seen the same evidence as all the others, but you know he wouldn't kill in cold blood. You've spoken to him, as a friend, of course, about his instability. He confided in you and you believe him. You can't convince everyone else alone. You need me to find the proof. A task which is made easier by the knowledge I already possess."

"I don't think a convicted criminal, who is supposedly dead, and just illegally crossed the US border using false identification will help Will's case." Alana said, sternly.

"Correct. But they don't have to know. I can find you the evidence, and the steps to take, and you can execute it."

"Why?" Alana asked, suspicion in her voice.

"I wasn't lying when I said I'm Will's friend. I know how it feels to have all your good work taken from you, and replaced with lies." Sherlock said, looking around the room, distractedly. "Just let me see Will, and if you still don't trust me, I'll leave." Sherlock smiled briefly.

"Ok, ok, fine." Alana said, swinging her bag over her shoulder.

"Then let's go."

* * *

"We need to stop off at my house first," Alana said, pulling the car over.

"The dogs need feeding?" Sherlock asked, nonchalantly.

"Yes." Alana replied, looking at Sherlock. "I'm not leaving you alone in my car. Come in with me. I live alone; there won't be anyone around who'll see you."

"I can tell that."

"Oh, of course. I forgot about your little party trick." Alana muttered. She unlocked the front door.

"It's not a party trick…" Sherlock said, aghast. He stood behind Alana, glancing around him, surveying the neighbourhood. The dogs were eager to see them. Alana had to push them away from the door to prevent them running outside, as she let Sherlock in after her. The dogs excitedly pawed at Sherlock's jeans, panting, and holding out their paws, looking up expectantly. The house smelt like dogs.

"They like you." Alana said. "They don't usually like strangers." She put down her keys on a side-table. She walked through an archway into the kitchen.

"They say dogs pick up traits from their owners." Sherlock mused.

"What case did you work on with Will, before?" Alana asked, opening a cupboard.

"It was the serial killer who liked to leave clues to the next victim. He was found, dead, in a car, next to one of his very own victims." Sherlock replied. Alana had very few personal possessions around her home. By personal, he meant photographs, or cards, anything from family and friends. There was one photo of her with some people Sherlock had never seen before; friends from college perhaps, but it wasn't recent. There was nothing newer than that.

"Will wasn't happy when you left to go back to London. Neither was Jack. They said you never explained why you left. Family emergency was all they told Will. What happened?" Alana asked, pouring dog food into a bowl, and stroking one of the dogs.

"It was an emergency. I couldn't stay. The case was almost closed; Will could handle the rest." Sherlock said bluntly. Alana raised her eyebrows. She didn't believe him.

"Jack thought you were going to stay around and find The Chesapeake Ripper. What happened to that?"

"Well, I'm here now, aren't I?" Sherlock snapped.

"But you only came back when Will was arrested for multiple murders." Alana said. "Why not sooner?" In the absence of a reply, Alana continued, "You got close, didn't you?"

"You and Will were a little more than just colleagues, weren't you?" Sherlock asked, changing the subject. The less Alana knew, the better at this stage.

"We are friends." Alana said, purposefully using the present tense.

"A little more than that, I'd say." Sherlock said, quietly. "I'm not wrong, am I? Any 'just friend' would have told me to get out by now. They'd be patient and wait for a safer way to help Will. Your logical judgement is clouded by your feelings for him and desperation to see him proven innocent. A friend wouldn't offer to look after this set of mongrels for an indefinitely long time."

"They're not mongrels!" Alana snapped, loudly. Sherlock looked at the floor, realizing he'd overstepped the mark.

"I apologize." He muttered. Alana just glared at him.

"We both want to see Will free." He concluded.

"I would be hurt, if I couldn't see the guilt in your face and hear it in your words." Alana replied, smoothly, "You're not the only one who can deduce relationships, Sherlock. You feel responsible for putting Will in that hospital. You think you could have stopped this from happening."

Sherlock was silent.

"It's ok to feel guilty, Sherlock, it makes you human. And that doesn't mean weak. But you risked everything to come back and help him. That's what matters right now. We all wish we'd done something to help Will sooner." Alana sighed, closing the cupboard again. "Let's go. It's a long drive to Baltimore." She didn't look at Sherlock as she walked past him.


	15. Baltimore

**Chapter 15: Baltimore**

"Baltimore Hospital for the Criminally Insane…" Sherlock mused, "How is Will insane, Doctor Bloom?" He asked, as he looked out of the window of the car, thoughtfully.

"I'm not looking at Will in a professional light. He is my friend." Alana replied, strictly, keeping her eyes on the road ahead.

"But you've considered it. _Come on_, you can't turn it off. You've noticed things. How do you diagnose Will?" Sherlock urged her, enthusiastically.

"I wouldn't diagnose Will." Alana said, bluntly.

"But there's a reason you didn't take your relationship further. You're at a stage in your career when it would be suitable to date. The problem isn't with you; it certainly wasn't with the chemistry; it must be with a view of Will you hold professionally. You're looking after yourself. Will poses a risk to your own mental health, now what is the problem with his?" Sherlock asked, quickly, still looking out of the window. Alana took her eyes off the road for a second to glare at Sherlock. She found herself wondering how Will had tolerated being picked apart like this. She then found herself wondering if this was what an intense therapy session felt like.

"He feels unstable." Alana sighed. "Or he felt unstable. He's been having hallucinations, losing time, forgetting entire chunks of his day."

"And that's enough to class him as criminally insane?" Sherlock asked, sounding unimpressed.

"It's enough to make anyone _feel_ like they're going insane. That and the human remains attached to his fishing lures and the ear he coughed up." Alana replied.

"But you don't agree."

"He's ill. But he's not criminal. He's killed two men; both to save others. Will's not a murderer."

"I know," Sherlock said. "We just need enough to prove it."

"So what do you know that we don't, Sherlock?" Alana asked, "Cards on the table. I've been honest with you."

"You wouldn't believe me. Not without physical evidence." Sherlock muttered.

"No? It's going to be hard to help you if you don't let anyone in. Does your partner know? Will he be helping you?" Alana asked.

"Partner?" Sherlock asked, feigning ignorance.

"John Watson. I didn't think you did cases alone." Alana said, "Even as a dead man."

Sherlock was silent.

"Oh," Alana breathed, "He doesn't know you're here. Does he know you're alive?" Alana asked, disbelievingly, taking her eyes off the road ahead for a second to show him the incredulous look on her face.

"I'm working alone." Sherlock replied, bluntly.

"You're protecting him." Alana said.

"It will be safer for him this way."

"Ok," Alana said, quietly, not wanting to push further, making her own judgements in her head. "So, about your evidence, do you have an idea of who did commit the murders Will's accused of?"

"I do." Sherlock replied, after some thought. "But nobody can know yet. I need to speak to Will. He knows something."

Alana sighed, gripping the wheel tighter. So she had resorted to harbouring a supposedly dead fraud to find a way to get Will Graham out of the hospital. Her professional mind was already shouting at her, but by this point she was done listening. So far, being professional hadn't helped Will.

* * *

Sherlock watched from a few metres back, adjusting the glasses he'd adopted as part of his disguise, as Alana leaned across the security desk, flirtatiously, speaking quietly to the guard. The guard looked around Alana to glance at Sherlock, looking him up and down critically. He typed on his keyboard.

"Thanks, Sam," Alana said, smiling warmly.

"Anytime, Dr Bloom," the guard said, smiling back, and handing over two guest passes. Sherlock noticed the man's hand lingering over Alana's as he handed them over. "Usual drill, just wear them where they're visible at all times. They'll have to check you both over for any sharp objects and all that when you get into Graham's block of cells."

"Thanks," Alana said again, turning away from the desk. She handed Sherlock a visitor's pass, which read "Arthur Danforth.".

"Using psychology against another person?" Sherlock muttered, under his breath, "Tut tut."

"It's only what anyone does when they want something," Alana replied quietly, as they walked down the corridor, looking straight ahead.

They reached the guard's office just before the set of cells which housed Will Graham.

"Not exactly what you imagine when you think of a hospital." Sherlock said quietly, narrowing his eyes.

"Dr Bloom," a security guard said, as the pair approached. "And who's this?"

"I'm a teacher. From England, I'm spending a couple of weeks doing some research for a book I'm writing." Sherlock replied.

"Huh," the security guard said, looking at Sherlock, "What's the book on?" He asked, taking Alana's coat and hanging it up on a hook on the wall.

"Oh, a lot of things. At the moment I'm just looking at some case studies."

"Right. I didn't think Graham was talking to any writers or reporters." The security guard said, looking at Sherlock, curiously, as he ran a metal detector in front of Alana.

"I wouldn't associate myself with the scum that you call reporters." Sherlock said, quickly. "I assume Freddie Lounds has tried."

"Oh, that woman…" the security guard sighed, "Yeah, she's tried to get in to see him a few times. "FBI won't give her the clearance to get in though. Crawford doesn't want her speaking to him. Graham's the only guy we've got locked up the FBI still seem to be looking after. Anyone else and they'd have her prying into their minds daily." He said, "Oh, you'll need to leave your scarf and jacket here, Mr…"

"Danforth. Call me Arthur." Sherlock said, quickly, smiling. He took off his bomber jacket with a flourish and reluctantly untied his scarf from around his neck.

"Ooh. Chilly in here." Sherlock muttered, folding his bare arms. The guard ran the detector in front of and behind Sherlock.

"Ok, Dr Bloom, you've heard all this before, but keep close to the wall. Don't talk to the other inmates. You can pass Graham papers, but no metal, no paperclips, no pens. Looks like you're alright though. There's a chair out for you, afraid we weren't expecting guests so there's only the one. See, we don't usually let more than one visitor at a time."

"That's no trouble. Dr Bloom will only be quick. I'll be speaking to Will Graham alone."

The guard nodded.

"Alright." Alana frowned at Sherlock. The guard swung open the metal barred gate.


	16. Two Broken Men

**Chapter 16: Two Broken Men**

"You want to talk to him _alone?_" Alana hissed, as they walked along the wall, past the other cells.

One inmate, whose face vaguely resembled that of a small rodent, shouted something vulgar at Alana through the bars.

"Ooh, it would be such a shame if your late mother were to hear you use such vile language. Then again, she wouldn't be able to hear you, let alone give you the attention you've always craved but were always unable to attract, due to her hearing impairment." Sherlock said quickly, by way of reply to the inmate. The inmate's face dropped, from a sly, excitable expression to one of surprise. He moved back, away from the bars.

"You're not supposed to talk to them, _Arthur._" Alana muttered, angrily.

"I'd have thought you'd appreciate my defending your honour. I wonder why you don't." Sherlock replied.

"Don't try and use psychology with me." Alana said, quietly. She tried to frown, but Sherlock could see her smile slightly. "How did you know his mother was deaf? And not alive?"

"I could tell he had a deaf carer from his speech patterns. He has a card on his table, addressed to a young son, too old and washed-out to be recent. Just a hunch really." Sherlock said, grinning. He looked sideways to catch Alana's reaction. Her face remained straight and unimpressed, her smile retreating. Sherlock would have to try a little harder to impress her.

Will's cell was small and plain. While one or two of the other cells had been personalised with pictures or books, Will's contained no personal possessions or decoration. Sherlock deduced that either he didn't intend to stay long, or he didn't want any reminders of the outside world to taunt him. When his guests arrived, he was sitting upright on his grey bedspread, in his grey jumpsuit, staring blankly at the grey stone wall in front of him. There were dark semi-circles of shadow beneath Will's eyes, and his face was stubbly and unshaven. Sherlock quickly decided from his appearance that the lack of personalisation in the room was probably for the latter reason.

"Will," Alana said softly, gesturing for Sherlock to wait behind her. He waited patiently, hands behind his back, as his eyes scanned the walls of the facility, back to look at the security office at the opposite end, noting in his mind the locations of security cameras, the paths the security guards walked, and the frequency at which they walked them.

"Alana," Will said, standing up and moving towards the bars, attempting a crooked smile, in the hope that Alana would then smile back. Her lips remained straight and serious.

"Who's this?" Will asked, suddenly defensive, moving back away from the bars.

"He's here to help. He says you've met before – "

"Allow me," Sherlock said. Will recognized his voice immediately, deep and crisp, eloquent and English, although that was not how he would have described it the first time. "I'd have thought you'd recognize me, Will."

Will blinked, mouth falling open slightly, with just the hint of a smile intermingled with his look of sheer disbelief.

"You get a little rusty when you have nothing to look at but a wall all day…" Will muttered, curiously, still disbelieving, and shaking his head. "Now I really must be going insane." He laughed, a harsh, dry bark of someone who hadn't laughed in a while. "No, I don't believe this. You-" Will stopped himself, looking from Alana to the man. "You fell from a roof of a building! I must be hallucinating again…I thought you were dead. How?" He whispered, leaning closer to the bars to get a better look, his mouth moving in all directions, trying to work out whether to look horrified or pleased. He looked different with all those curls cut off, that was certain, but Will had no doubt it was the same man, with the same tall, lean stature, and the same questioning gaze, now hidden behind a pair of square glasses.

"Not yet, Will, not until I get you out of here. As for the question of _how_, that's a story for another day, I'm afraid," Sherlock said, smiling proudly, stepping closer.

"I thought I would have heard on the news or someone would have mentioned-" Will began, "Oh." He said. "Oh, you're not… they don't know," he muttered, quickly. Sherlock noticed Alana's awkward stance; she seemed reluctant to interrupt.

"Alana, could I have a moment alone with Will, please?" Sherlock asked Alana sweetly, smiling so broadly that it was frightening. Alana looked to Will. Will nodded.

"It's alright, Alana." He reassured her.

"I'll be just back there." She said, reluctantly. She lingered a moment before walking back the way she'd come.

"How are you coping, Will?" Sherlock asked quietly, pulling the chair behind him closer to the bars to sit down. Will perched on the edge of the bed.

"Oh, I'm just peachy," Will replied, looking up from his clasped hands for a second.

"I can see that," Sherlock grimaced.

"What are you doing here?" Will asked.

"I've come to get you out of here, Will." Sherlock said, leaning forward.

"But Sher – but – you can't," Will lowered his voice, "You're dead, how can you help me?"

"You're right. But I can give others the evidence and point them in the right direction to get you free. We just need someone else to listen." Sherlock said, enthusiastically.

Will frowned.

"You can't." Will said, suddenly. His face had fallen. "There's too much against me. I've lost time and people have died. They found human remains in my fishing lures. I – I coughed up Abigail's ear," he said, disgustedly, choking on Abigail's name.

"Oh, I know," Sherlock said, darkly, "You've been manipulated from the start, Will,"

"And you know who by." Will muttered looking up, slowly.

"I think you know too, Will." Will was silent. He looked at Sherlock, searchingly, then,

"You knew this was going to happen when you last visited." Will said slowly, frowning at Sherlock. He spoke louder. "When you left suddenly, without any warning. Jack just thought you had other cases, and you were getting bored, but you had a real reason. You knew I was going to end up here. What was it, you didn't want to get caught up in my mess? Didn't want to end up the same way as Marissa Schurr or Cassie Boyle?" Will asked, angrily.

"No." Sherlock snapped quickly. "Don't insult me, Will, we talked about the copycat. I knew it wasn't Nicholas Boyle, but I knew it couldn't be you. Stop being so self-destructive and let me help you. This is what I meant, this was what I feared would happen. Will, it's me, I'm trying to help you. Stop being so hostile." Sherlock hissed, stubbornly, "Oh," Sherlock exclaimed, almost sounding excited, "It is so much clearer now than when I realised those months ago. The crimes are all so,_ so_ linked to you, Will, which is why you were so easy to frame. But you already know that. Why does nobody notice these things but us, Will?" Sherlock sounded desperate, pleading. Will just looked at Sherlock, eyes narrowed.

"I hope you know what you're doing. A couple of weeks and maybe you'll be in the cell next door." Will said, quietly, through gritted teeth.

"It's a risk I'm willing to take." Sherlock said.

"But why?" Will asked, the anger on his face turning to confusion, "Why would you be willing to risk so much to prove me innocent?" Will asked, his voice cold and distrusting. "Why come back? Is it for fun? Are you bored? Looking for an adrenaline rush or a story to tell the grandkids?" Will asked, knowing it wasn't the answer before he said it. Sherlock had to restrain himself from rolling his eyes.

"We are alike, Will, you and I. I know what it feels like to be named a fraud, discredited for your work and called a freak. The world needs more great minds like your own, and you're no use locked up in this place."

There was silence for a moment. Will didn't know what to say.

"How are you going to catch him out? He's smart. He's careful. Anything that can be used against him will be more effective evidence against me." Will said, quietly, looking at his hands, which he rolled over each other uneasily.

"I was hoping you could help me out with that," Sherlock said, smiling. "You know the monster better than anyone."

"A little too well for his liking." Will commented, looking at the floor.

"How would you take him down, Will? Now you can see him, how do you see him? Now he's exposed to you, you're better equipped to look than ever. When you're in his mind, where does it take you?" Sherlock asked. Will breathed in deeply.

"He was looking after me. Sometimes he was honest: he helped me save Abigail…at first. He took me to the doctor. I had a brain scan…" Will muttered. Sherlock's raised his eyebrows. "But he wasn't helping me at all, was he?" Will said, "Or maybe he thought he was. But his idea of helping is different to the rest of us. He knew what I was, what was happening to me…but he pushed it...trying to see how far I would go. Carve me into his ideal, sharpen me up like his favourite hunting knife, poised to kill. He had me drawing clocks, reassuring me that I was keeping track of who I am, grounded in the present." Will's voice became strained and aggressive, tinged with regret, "Grounded in the path he set me on, only able to trust him. He wanted to leave me with only one explanation. That I'm not in control. I'm ill. Then I let him in. They faked the brain scan, didn't they? I'm not a psychopath, but he's the only one who could prove that, and he's not giving any of it away." Sherlock listened, taking off his fake glasses. He hated to hear Will picking apart the already broken pieces of his life and relationships, but he needed to hear what Will had to say.

"Yes. Tell me about Tobias Budge. Hannibal killed him, in self-defence? The kill must have been out of character, impulsive, not following his usual patterns?"

"Partly true." Will said, leaning forward, "Tobias Budge was going to kill Hannibal. But I think Hannibal already knew about him," Will said, looking into the corner of his cell, concentrating. "He sent me to see him, knowing what he was. When Tobias left, he went to Hannibal for revenge. Tobias wanted to come out on top, to impress Hannibal, and then to end him."

"And Tobias killed Hannibal's patient first?" Sherlock asked, pryingly. Will shook his head, staring at the bars just to his right.

"That doesn't work. Hannibal must have snapped his neck. When we looked, there were no prints. I didn't see that as unusual at the time, but it's on the record. Hannibal used a cloth to hold the weapon he killed Tobias with – the model…stag…thing he has – out of habit. We thought it was fear of being wrongly convicted of murder, and his confession meant it wasn't relevant, but his intent was murder." Will sighed, "Anyway, I've tried telling them it's a set up. I even told Jack the profile of the person who's doing this to me, but he won't believe it. He won't believe that someone close to the both of us has set me up like this." Will laughed suddenly, "And he definitely won't believe me when I tell him that a man we know would _cook us_ just as readily as he would cook _for_ us." Sherlock smiled at the hint of humour.

"I'll make them believe you."

"You need to trap him." Will said, suddenly, "Words won't do it. He's made sure no one's going to believe me. He's killed anyone who might have been able to persuade them. Force his hand; make him sloppy. When you met before, you made him uncomfortable. If anyone can get him to mistake, it's you. You _scared _him. He wanted me to be his friend – even through all this, he'll still think of me that way – he'll be easier to trap now. The spotlight's on me; he'll be less careful; he'll be making mistakes. He'll be feeling_ alone_. You might not be able to prove all the things he's done in the past yet, but if you can catch him in the act, it will plant enough doubt."

"And his word as a psychiatrist won't mean anything," Sherlock agreed, "They won't be able to trust anything he's said against you." Sherlock nodded, smiling with approval at Will's suggestion. Will was at rock bottom, Sherlock could see that, but he was smarter than ever, less vulnerable. He had nowhere to fall.

"Just promise me one thing," Will said, leaning closer to the bars. Sherlock leaned in slightly to listen, eyebrows raised attentively. "Alana can't get hurt in this. She'll want to help you, but she can't get hurt. Look after her." Will muttered. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"How touching and sentimental. I'm sure she can look after herself. But I will do the best I can."

"You speak as though you're not one of us, Sherlock," Will whispered, "But we both know the real reason you left. If it wasn't fear of me, and it wasn't a fear of Hannibal, then it was a fear of what could happen to John. Now, John's not here, so you treat Alana as though she were John. You look after her with your life. Don't let him get to her, and don't drag her into this. If this all goes wrong, I don't want her to know anything. He can't suspect her." He said, sternly.

_Treat Alana as though she were John, _Sherlock thought bitterly. John was now alone, in London, with no idea that Sherlock was even alive. Whenever he thought about it, Sherlock felt a peculiar sensation in his stomach, somewhere between anxiety and guilt, and his heart rate increased. He'd tried watching John, planning to keep him safe, but it had become too dangerous: being near him put John in more danger than leaving him unprotected. It hurt to know that John had been so close, yet he'd been unable to communicate with him. He'd considered leaving John messages, but he'd realized that sounded rather like a poltergeist, and that leaving your friend strange messages from beyond the grave could only be taken two ways: it could be a sick wind up or John would think he was going insane. In a way, John's absence left Sherlock feeling as though John was the one who had died. Now Sherlock found himself following John's wishes; he would have wanted him to help Will Graham, and to protect Alana. John was a firm believer in compassion, and if he were here, if he were still solving cases – an occupation he had ceased upon Sherlock's "death" – that was what he would be doing. For John, he would look after Alana.


	17. Misery Loves Company

**AN: This chapter's really a continuation on chapter 16, but I split it up so it wasn't too long! Sorry about the update taking longer than usual, I'm at uni, so I've had a lot less time to write, but I'll keep trying to update regularly again. Thank you for your reviews, and your patience! I hope you're enjoying this; let me know what you think!**

**Chapter 17: Misery Loves Company**

Sherlock hoped Will hadn't seen how far Sherlock's face had fallen at the mention of John. _You look sad when you think he can't see you, _Sherlock thought.

"Ok. I don't think I have long." Sherlock said, looking back to the security office. Alana was gesturing at him to move away. "I'll leave you to speak with Alana."

"I hope you know what you're doing," Will sighed, bitterly. Will felt both better and worse knowing that there was someone else looking after Alana, someone else who knew what the danger was, who could protect her, as he was incapable of doing.

"I'll contact you." Sherlock said, quietly, then turned quickly away.

As he left, Alana returned, striding purposefully. She gave Sherlock a steely, distrusting glare and then stopped in front of Will.

"How are the dogs?" Will asked, standing up from the bed, and smiling weakly at Alana, trying to straighten himself up, to look big and strong.

"They miss you," she replied, "But they're coping." She said. She paused. "Like me." She added, glancing back at Sherlock, who was walking away. "What did you two talk about?"

"I was just going over the evidence they have against me. Filling him in…what he's working against," Will replied bluntly.

"What are we working against?" Alana asked, quietly. She pursed her lips. Will shook his head.

"I'm sure Jack's been through it all with you before," Will said, disinterestedly, staring at the ground.

"Why him, Will?" Alana asked, her brow furrowed, and the corners of her mouth turned downwards into a concerned frown, "Isn't there someone in the FBI, someone more…safe?" She whispered the last word.

"There's no one else. He's the best there is. He believes me." Will replied, bluntly.

"Other people will believe you! It doesn't need to be him!" Alana whispered, stubbornly.

"Alana, he's the best chance I have."

"Can I trust him?" Alana sighed, standing close to the bars, looking at Will, with scrutiny and concern in her eyes.

"You can trust him," Will replied, "Heck, if I trust him, you can. Just don't get too involved. I mean, help him. I need the help. But you know what I mean, he's…"

"I know." Alana muttered. "But if he can prove the accusations against you are false, he can prove the ones against himself are too, can't he?" Alana asked. Will looked down. He was holding onto the bars with his hands now. Alana lifted up one of her hands, stroking her fingers across one of Will's hands, reassuringly. His hand tensed more around the bars. He smiled, shaking his head.

"Don't do this," he muttered, looking up, with a pained smile into Alana's eyes.

"Don't do what?" Alana asked, moving her hands away.

"You know, Alana. Don't get caught up in this storm. You wouldn't before, don't now. Not for pity." Will said, quietly, looking down at the floor. He pulled his hands away from the bars, letting his arms fall limply by his sides. He looked at the floor, kicking at the dust. Alana wrapped her fingers around the bar of his cell, so she was standing less than a foot away from him.

"It's not pity, Will." She tried desperately to catch his eyes.

"But I'm unstable. You said so. I can't take you down with me." Will said, sternly. Alana was quiet. She inhaled steadily.

"No. No, I know," Alana sighed softly, "I just want you to know I'm here."

"I know you're here," Will almost laughed, "Just to see you is enough to know you're here. I don't need to hold you for you to steady me. Don't do that. You need to stay above the water to hold me afloat. You're not my anchor; you're my life preserver." Alana pulled her hand away from the bars and took a step away. She gulped, looking down to try and hide her eyes from Will.

"You'll stay afloat, Will. It'll be ok. I'll be back soon." She looked up at him now, controlling her reactions like the professional inside of her. Will forced a smile.

* * *

After they left, every time Alana spoke to Sherlock, there was a steely, protective undertone to her voice. She was blunt, impersonal and to the point, asking questions only to work out his plans for the following days (to which he gave only a vague response) and to ask where he would be staying. Sherlock could tell their brief visit to Will had affected her. Sherlock shrugged her off, saying that he would find somewhere to stay, but Alana protested. It was late, dark already, and a part of her didn't want Sherlock to get too far away from her: she needed to know that he really existed, see him in the morning and know that there was a way to save Will Graham. She offered him the spare room in her house; it was only a small, plainly decorated single bedroom, but Sherlock confessed that it was more than he hoped for. He could see she was fragile, and adopted the tone he usually reserved for kind, older women. He gave her a forced, and supposedly grateful smile, but it just came across as awkward and unnatural.

Sherlock hadn't brought many belongings with him. He had a few changes of clothes, various disguises included, some of the evidence and sheets he had retained from his previous visit and a cheap laptop he'd bought before coming to America. He hung up his coat on the back of the door to the spare room, but left his other possessions in his suitcase.

Sherlock was unable to sleep – not that he'd really tried. He sat on the bed, hands together, chin rested upon his interlocked fingers, pondering for some time, before he leapt out of bed. He was wearing his dark blue, long pyjamas. He decided he could get himself a drink, or maybe some food from the kitchen. It was dark, about midnight, as he crept down the stairs, hoping not to wake Alana, whose bedroom was in the next room to his. He could hear the television in her room: some old movie he vaguely recognized was playing. In the dark, he squinted at the pictures on the walls, but couldn't make them out. He walked slowly down the stairs.

Sherlock was near the bottom of the staircase, standing in the dark when he heard the sounds. They were muffled, choking, sobbing sounds, quiet, like a person trying to hold back, but unfortunately clear. He grimace, refraining from cursing under his breath. Alana was crying. John would know what to do right now. Sherlock could make out her figure on the couch, illuminated by the moonlight which streamed in through the open curtains, knees up to her chest, one hand on the head of a dog which was lying beside her, the other clutching her knees together. There was a blanket thrown over the arm of the sofa, a book folded, disregarded, spine upturned on top of it. She sobbed again, and Sherlock heard her mutter angrily to herself. She moved her hand off the dog, to run it through her hair in angst. Sherlock decided against his midnight drink. He never had learnt how to deal with a crying woman. This was more John's area than his own. Sherlock moved backwards, putting his foot on the stair above and behind him. It creaked loudly. Damn, he thought. Alana turned around, her face wet with tears.

"Oh," she muttered, "Uh, I – " she attempted to brush her tears away from her face with one hand. The flow of tears had stopped abruptly.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, quickly, not knowing what else to say, "I was just going to get some water…"

"Oh. No, go ahead. The kitchen's through there…" Alana trailed off. She looked away, embarrassed. Sherlock started towards the kitchen, but stopped in the doorway. He looked back over at Alana, who was facing away from him, one hand still pushing tears across her cheek. He sighed.

"Do you – do you want a cup of tea?" He asked, hopefully. Alana turned around, eyes wide.

"Uh… yes, yes, please," she squeaked. Sherlock returned with two cups of tea a few minutes later, grateful that Alana owned a kettle and actual tea-bags.

"Here," he said, handing her a cup of tea. She took it from him.

"Thank you." She said. The tears were gone now, but she was staring ahead, blankly. Sherlock stood awkwardly in front of her, holding his own cup of tea in one hand in front of him. He said nothing for a moment, just looking at her, trawling his mind for something to say. How did John usually comfort women? He decided against the "are you alright?" he always heard; what a silly question. People didn't cry because they were alright.

"Why are you crying?" He asked. His voice sounded colder than it was meant to, Sherlock realized too late; he hadn't quite got a grasp on the idea of sounding soft. Once again, John's job, not his. Alana opened her mouth, not knowing what to say.

"I, uh, it's nothing. I'm fine." She said.

"People don't cry because they're fine." Sherlock said, still towering above her, awkwardly.

"You don't need to worry. I don't even know you…" Alana mumbled.

"No…but a stranger bearing tea is better than nobody." Sherlock said, quickly. "Or so I hear." He smiled.

Sherlock sat down on the sofa beside Alana. She had swivelled around now, to sit upright so she could drink her tea.

"You…can… you can talk…to me - if you like." Sherlock said, slowly and jarringly, saying each word as though it were a separate sentence. Alana sighed.

"That's usually my line." She laughed.

"Go ahead. Maybe you can switch roles." He suggested, jokingly.

They talked for some time. Well, Alana spoke, with little detail, changing the subject as often as possible, until it turned to her asking about London, and Sherlock recited a case he and John had solved a long time ago. He was explaining how he'd started piecing the evidence together, when he realized how close Alana had moved towards him, and that she had been silent for some time. He peered to his left, to see her eyes were closed and she was breathing deeply. Her head lulled, falling against Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock became tense. Now this was definitely John's territory. He shifted, uneasily in the silence, looking around the darkened room, at all the dogs asleep, some curled up against each other. It would be rude to wake her, wouldn't it? Sherlock sighed, trying to make himself more comfortable. More than ever, he admired John's tolerance for this kind of thing.

It was only because Sherlock could feel the foundations of his own mind palace crumbling with uncertainty that he allowed Alana to remain peaceful for a few moments, and didn't immediately move away, waking her from her slumber. Alana was searching for stability, as Sherlock imagined Will had done when he had attempted to make a romantic advance towards Alana, and Sherlock appeared to be the most solid structure around, with his high walls guarding his personal thoughts, and his sturdy, unafraid composure. When Sherlock left, he threw the blanket from the sofa arm over Alana, leaving her head against the cushions on the sofa, which in Sherlock's opinion would make a much more comfortable headrest than his own bony arm.


End file.
